


The Rose and the Wolf

by xxjinchuurikixx



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beast!Derek, Beauty and the Beast, Beauty and the Beast AU, Belle!Stiles, Derek Has Feelings, Derek is 21, Disney Movies, F/M, M/M, Slow Build, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles is 17, for best effect listen to the soundtrack haha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-19 21:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxjinchuurikixx/pseuds/xxjinchuurikixx
Summary: For who could ever learn to love a Beast?*Stiles takes his father's place as a Beast's prisoner in an enchanted castle.





	The Rose and the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AwkwardMoment](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardMoment/gifts).



> This fic was written mostly in a manic state of tears to the soundtrack, tbh.
> 
> Inspired by _Beauty and the Beast_ , both 1991 and 2017 versions. (and when I say inspired, I mean I've seen the original hundreds of times and the remake not enough haha)
> 
> This is for [my sterek buddy](http://feigningdesire.tumblr.com/) and enabler, who ranted with me back and forth about Beast!Derek and Beauty!Stiles and made this all possible (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr!! [xxjinchuurikixx](http://xxjinchuurikixx.tumblr.com/)  
> -xo, mo <3
> 
> (Cast listed in the end notes, if you wanna go into it with the mental knowledge. Also, inspo links!)

 

_Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young prince lived in a shining castle. Although he had everything his heart desired, the prince was spoiled, selfish, and unkind._

_One winter's night, an old beggar woman came to the castle and offered him a single rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold. Repulsed by her haggard appearance, the prince sneered at the gift and turned the old woman away, but she warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within._

_When he dismissed her again, the old woman's ugliness melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress. The prince tried to apologize, but it was too late, for she had seen that there was no love in his heart, and as punishment, she transformed him into a hideous beast, and placed a powerful spell on the castle, and all who lived there._

_Ashamed of his monstrous form, the beast concealed himself inside his castle. The enchantress’ spell set an endless winter upon the castle, and he and his servants passed out of memory of all who knew them._

_The rose she had offered was truly an enchanted rose. If he could learn to love another, and earn their love in return by the time the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time._

_As the years passed, he fell into despair, and lost all hope, for who could ever learn to love a beast?_

****

 

The village was quiet first thing in the morning; always just as the sun was rising and the streets were still and empty, lamps glowing.

It was in this quiet stillness that Stiles would sit at his window, looking out into the rolling hills and the fields and forests beyond the town’s edge. He’d watch the sunlight creep over the trees, staining everything with gold filigree no matter what the season. In summer, as it was, the meadows were blooming with wildflowers, and the trees were sparkling like emeralds when the sun touched them.

Stiles rested his chin on his arm, blinking as the sun washed over him, warming his face and stinging his eyes. Downstairs he could already hear his father milling about in the drawing room, the quiet shuffling of papers and metal things clacking together. Sighing, Stiles turned on the window seat and stuffed his feet into his boots, tying them up before he grabbed his blue coat off the foot of his bed. He tucked the book he had just finished under his arm and then raked a hand through his hair, tucking it back from his face.

He went down the stairs quietly as possible, the third step from the bottom creaking only slightly, which his father couldn’t hear over the clucking of chickens and the unmelodious notes of a broken music box.

Slipping his jacket on, Stiles unlatched the front door and stepped outside, shutting the door quietly behind him. There was a nearby whistle of a bird, and then a further off fluttering tweet as Stiles stepped lightly down the porch stairs and then through the garden. A few of the chickens clucked at him, watching as Stiles hopped lithely over the short garden fence.

The village was a cluster of houses and shops nestled in the groove between several hills, a deep forest stretching between the village and the market. Stiles looked up at the closed windows of the small one-rooms that sat over shops just as the first voice called out a bright good morning.

“ _Bonjour!_ ”

“Bonjour!

“Bonjour.”

Stiles smiled, shaking his head as windows and shop doors swung open, the scuttling of a flower cart rolling out of the little white greenhouse, the smell of bread and burnt sugar wafting out of the bakery.

The baker stepped out with a tray of rolls just as Stiles walked past the familiar hustle and bustle of the town waking up around him.

“Every morning just the same,” Stiles said, watching the same patterns and routines unfold like clockwork.

“Morning, Stiles!”

Stiles spun slightly, smiling as he saw one of the more familiar faces in the village. “Morning, _monsieur_ Jean,” he said.

“Where are you going this early?”

“The library. I just finished another of Shakespeare’s plays,” Stiles said, and then hugged the book in question to his chest.

Jean patted his mule’s cheek and shook his head. “Shaking spears sounds dangerous.”

“That it is,” Stiles said, pressing his lips to fight down his laugh. Stiles rounded the washing fountain  where young girls were already tending their laundry, and then the talking started.

“Oh look, there he goes,” a villager said, and Stiles kept his head down.

“Oh, John’s boy. That Stiles is strange; no question,” another said.

“Always so dazed.”

“Mm-hm. And distracted. His poor father.”

Sighing, Stiles turned his ears to another conversation. Any other. But he caught the same wind.

“That boy just doesn’t fit.”

“Maybe if he got his head out of the clouds.”

Stiles tuned his ears elsewhere _again_.

“He sure is a funny boy.”

“Funny boy, that Stiles.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles muttered, “Anything _else?_ ” He looked up and saw Lamerde flirting with one of the shop girls.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” she said, and he said, “Good day.” She laughed, “How is your wife?” He left.

Stiles rolled his eyes, listening to the bustle of the village as he approached the library. “There must be more,” he told himself, and even _that_ had become something he said like clockwork.

He pushed the library door open, and the librarian called his name familiarly. “How did you know it was me?”

“Well, a fine good morning to the only bookworm in town,” he said, and Stiles sighed, setting the book he was returning on the small cart. The rest of the books occupying the return cart shelves were also things he had borrowed. “Finished already?”

“Good morning. And yes, finished; I couldn’t put it down. Have anything new?”

“Not since yesterday,” the librarian laughed, and Stiles stepped up onto the ladder and reached for a familiar blue spine.

“That’s alright. I’ll just borrow this one,” he said, and handed it over.

“Oh. You’ve read this one twice!”

“It’s my favorite,” Stiles said, flushing. “Far-off places, sword fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise! As far from here as can be.”

The librarian laughed, handing the book back into Stiles’ hands. “If you like it all that much, it’s yours.”

Stiles gasped, hugging the book. “ _Monsieur._ ”

“I insist!”

Stiles back out the front door, the bell jingling. “Thank you so much!”

Back out in the bustling streets, it was easier to ignore the chattering villagers. But bits of conversation still caught Stiles’ ears, though now they were put through a filter that the book provided.

“Ugh, that boy is so peculiar. Do you think he’s feeling well?”

“Nose stuck inna book. How typical.”

Stiles stepped through a gathering of runaway sheep, and one of them nudged his hand insistently. Laughing, Stiles knelt down beside him. “This is my favorite part. It’s a little cheesy, but amazing.” He turned the book towards the sheep, letting him and a few of his friends see the illustration on the page. “This is where she meets Prince Charming. But she doesn’t know it’s him till chapter three.” With that, Stiles turned the book another fifty pages. “See?”

The sheep bleated in his face, and then the shepherd was coming around the corner, and Stiles sprang to his feet and hurried off, laughing.

“That boy is beautiful, though,” the lady in the hat shop said as Stiles walked by, oblivious. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her companion nodded. “Yes, fair, but still odd.”

“Nothin’ like the rest of us, that Stiles.”

**

On one of the hills surrounding the village, Peter sat on his horse, admiring Stiles through his telescope. His red coat was tailored well, and the side of his horse’s saddle was hung with several fat geese. “He’s just stunning, isn’t he, Parrish?”

Parrish rolled his eyes, but when Peter offered him the telescope he took it, and he looked into it at Stiles walking past the baker, handing him a coin for a loaf. “He’s… lovely.”

“Stiles is the most beautiful thing in town. That makes him the best,” Peter said with a smirk.

Closing the telescope, Parrish turned to Peter, his horse shifting uncomfortably. “But he’s so… well read. And you’re so very athletically inclined.”

“Well, ever since the war I’ve felt I need something. And I feel Stiles has that something.”

Parrish arched his eyebrows. “ _Je ne sais quoi?_ ”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t know.” He kicked his horse’s sides, urging the huge black stallion forward, and Parrish followed him into the village without another word as Peter rambled. “The moment I saw him I said, ‘God, he’s gorgeous,’ and I fell. He’s the only thing in this town as beautiful as me.” Sighing, Peter smiled at Parrish. “I’m going to marry that boy, Parrish.”

Parrish turned his face away and shuddered.

As Peter dismounted in the town square, the Bimbettes shuffled out of the pub, leaning upon each other as they fawned and swooned. “ _Monsieur_ Peter!”

Peter turned to them, flashing a devilish, debonair smile as his horse pawed at the ground. A splash of mud covered the girls’ skirts, and Parrish hid his face behind his horse’s neck as he laughed, their audacious squeals drawing a much more authentic smile to Peter’s handsome face.

Peter twisted around, snatching a bouquet of thick peonies and ranunculus and baby’s breath from the floral cart, spinning to find Stiles making his way back up to his small house. He was pushed and tugged by the crowd, the busy bustle of the village catching him much more easily than Stiles’ small frame.

“Pardon. ‘Scuse me!” Peter huffed above the commotion of selling fish and bread and fabric and fruit. “Please let me through!”

As Stiles went, he found his attention drawn back out of his book by more comments, these ones the ones he heard most often.

“It’s a pity he doesn’t fit in.”

“Such a handsome boy.”

“A beauty, but a funny boy.”

“Such a funny boy, that Stiles.”

Groaning, Stiles slammed his book shut, spinning around as he reached the edge of the commotion, coming up to the area where there were more houses and less shops.

And Peter was there.

“Good morning, Stiles,” he said, extending the bouquet of fluffy pink flowers and small white puffs.

Stiles jolted, hugging his book to his chest. “M-morning, Peter…”

Peter smiled. “Lovely book you have there.”

Stiles looked down at it and then back at Peter suspiciously. “You’ve read it?”

Peter’s expression shifted, and he smiled broader. “Well, uh, no. Not that one. But you know—books. It’s a nice cover.” Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he turned. Peter pushed the flowers towards him again, and a sprig of baby’s breath tickled Stiles’ nose. “For your table. Shall I join you this evening?”

Stiles looked up at Peter’s expectant smile and gently nudged the flowers out of his way as he took a few steps back. “I don’t think so, Peter. Not this evening.”

“Oh, busy?”

Stiles blinked, looking up at the sky, and then back at Peter. “No.” He turned around, not offering Peter a backwards glance as he reached the small yard encircling his and his father’s home.

The chickens clucked at him and Stiles tossed them a handful of seed, listening to them gobble it happily as inside there was a very delicate, very familiar melody plinking away on a music box.

Stiles hung his coat on the rack beside the door, setting the loaf of bread on the small kitchen table before he stepped through the small hallway and went down the stairs.

His father was sitting at his work desk, a small screwdriver in his hand, tweezers in the other. He looked up once, then twice, and smiled. “Hey.”

Stiles grinned. “Hey. You got it working again.”

John nodded, twisting the tiny key of the windmill music box out of the small hole at the front. “I’ve always liked this one… Glad it’s working well enough for the market tomorrow.”

“We don’t have to sell them all. There’s plenty others,” Stiles said, and he picked up one of the other music boxes. It was a Faberge egg on a small gold stand, and Stiles hadn’t seen the inside of the egg for a very long time.

“Not that one. He’s done for good,” his father told him.

Stiles rolled his eyes, picking a gear off of the table, then a small metal stick, and a pair of tweezers with a small screw between their teeth. When Stiles set the music box down and twisted the key, it still didn’t play.

John shrugged.

Stiles picked it up and hit it against the table, and the egg popped open, the small white rabbit inside hopping out on a thin wire and a spring, melody singing.

Laughing, John stood up and cupped Stiles’ cheek. “You’re my little genius, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But still. We need the money, Stiles,” he told him, and Stiles sighed, turning to lock the rabbit back inside the delicately painted egg. “How was the village today?”

“Same as always. Dad? Do you think I’m… odd?”

“My son, odd? Who would give you an idea like that?”

“Just about everyone else in town.”

Laughing, John sat back down and closed up the windmill music box, closing inside the small family. “You know, I knew a woman like you back in Paris. She was ahead of her time, ahead of the town. And people thought she was odd. But eventually, they realized what a treasure she was… And they found themselves drawn to everything about her.” John smiled up at Stiles, who looked down at his feet. “But this is a small village. A small means safe.”

Stiles looked at the painting hanging over the small fireplace, his chest growing tight. It was a painting of his mother, hair braided over her shoulder, wearing a bright blue gown with pink flowers, holding a tiny Stiles in her arms. Around her neck was a golden chain, a charm hanging between her collar bones. It was a rose, sparkling like ruby, the size of one of Stiles’ nails. “Can… Can you tell me just one more thing about her?”

John paused, looking up from the windmill, his eyes finding Stiles’. “Well… Your mother was…” He sighed. Stiles knew it was hard, and he never liked to press, but he had so little. So very little. “Fearless,” his father finally said. “Your mother was fearless.”

Stiles watched his father put the music box into a velvet lined case, and those words gave him another small shred of something he didn’t have a name for.

**

Stiles finished hitching up Roscoe, patting the palomino draft horse on his shoulder as his father loaded up the last of the music boxes that he had repaired. “Have you got everything?” Stiles said, ruffling Roscoe’s thick mane as John tossed his pack onto the bench seat of the small wagon.

“I think so,” John said, climbing onto the seat. Stiles handed him the reins and rested his chin on the low armrest of the bench. “Need any gifts from the market?”

Stiles smiled up at his father, pretending to think for a minute. “Not particularly. But a rose would be nice… Like the one in the painting.”

John laughed, patting Stiles’ shoulder. “You ask for that every year.”

“And every year you get one for me.”

With a smile, John lifted his hand from Stiles’ shoulder and did his best to smooth down his son’s unruly tuft of brown hair. “Then I’ll get you another one. Try not to get into any trouble while I’m gone.”

“You’re the one that needs to stay out of trouble,” Stiles said, and he patted the horse’s rump. “Bring him home safe, buddy.”

“Don’t tell him that, I’ll be fine.”

Stiles watched the wagon roll down the narrow lane, then onto the main street of the village, past the square. Sighing, Stiles went back onto the porch and sat there for a substantial amount of time, long after he could no longer see his father.

**

The sun had set not long ago, but already John had to pull on his cloak to keep warm. The wind had picked up, and a slight drizzle was coming down from the dark clouds above. John had lit the small lamp hanging on the side of the wagon, and Roscoe was burring. “Well, these woods are nice. Wish I knew where we were,” John said, and he looked up at the trees and couldn’t see the stars through the clouds. “How… How did we get lost, Roscoe? Did they move the roads?”

Roscoe snorted, and John groaned. He had never gotten lost on the way to the market before. This was just rotten luck.

A bitter wind rose up along the road, a flurry of leaves rose along the dirt path, skittering in front of Roscoe with a loud hiss.

There was a distant rumble of thunder, and John looked over his shoulder just as a bolt of lightly tore into a large tree on the side of the road ahead of them. John yanked on Roscoe’s reins, pulling the wagon back as the tree collapsed into the road, smoking, sparks sizzling on the burnt bark.

“Easy, boy. Well, that would have been untimely,” John said, and Roscoe burred in agreement. Surveying the options, John noted a narrow path of dirt that led under a few low hanging trees. It was dimly lit, glowing almost blue with fog. “Huh… A shortcut, huh, Roscoe? Well, one path closes another opens, right? Let’s just get to the market and get back home before Stiles starts to worry.”

The path was quiet, haunting in the way it was still and misty and shielded from the rain and thunder they had left behind. After a ways into the path, the ground glowed, and the trees were still, and John realized there was snow everywhere. Snow coated the ground, ice was painted over the trees,

Neighing, Roscoe stepped shakily over a patch of frozen ground, shaking his mane. “It’s alright, boy. It’s just snow… In June.”

The path grew colder, the woods more dense, and then there was a growl in the bushes off to John’s right.

The growl was followed by a rustle, and then a snarl, and John could see eyes and long, triangular ears peeking out of the snow-crusted foliage.

“Run,” he said, and Roscoe nickered, stepping backwards in confusion. “Roscoe, _run!_ ”

Roscoe neighed, springing forward, kicking as the white wolf leapt out onto the path. It snarled, howling behind them as they ran down the path. Another howl followed, and then barking and snapping of teeth, and soon John and Roscoe had a whole pack of snowy wolves chasing after them.

“Go, boy!”

A wolf snapped at Roscoe’s legs and he neighed, bucking. The action tugged on the cinch about his waist, holding the wagon to his sides. The path swerved drastically, and when Roscoe turned sharply to take it, there was a snapping sound, and then the wagon straps snapped and Roscoe kicked forward. The wagon crashed to the ground behind him and John was flung onto an outcropping of dirt and thick roots as the wagon wheels caught a rock, up-ending the cart.

“That’s great!” John snapped, and then there was a rumbling growl above him.

A huge wolf with a scar dragging down its face towered over him, stepping cautiously down the steep incline with his lips curled back over massive teeth.

The other wolves were below, snapping their teeth and leaping as high as they could, narrowly missing John’s boots. “Roscoe, get your ass back here!”

There was a neigh, and then John saw the gold draft horse stomping his way over, massive hooves leaving divots in the ground as wolves jumped out of his way. When he got close enough, John jumped down, and he landed on Roscoe’s back, kicking him as he took fistfuls of his mane.

“Go, boy, go!”

They ran aimlessly along the path, following the only direction they could go with the wolves snarling and growling just behind them. There was a gate up ahead, cut through the trees and standing tall, wrought iron encroached with snow-drenched hedges.

When John and Roscoe charged through the gate, the wolves skid to a stop, viciously barking and snapping their teeth at each other. One of them tilted its head back and howled, a feral sound that faded behind John as they wound through the tall hedges paths.

“Good boy, Roscoe… They’ll just have to go find someone else to eat, huh?”

Roscoe burred, tossing his mane.

John looked up, and up, and he pulled on Roscoe’s mane, stopping him as they came to a wide courtyard beyond the hedges. The hedge maze brought them to a vast castle carved of dark stone, gargoyles standing guard on the ledges of slanted rooftops, huge towers rising into the snow clouds. The castle itself was bigger than the village, perhaps twice over, and every window but one was dark and colorless.

“Well… Might as well see if we can rest here for the night, huh? Not going back out there with those mangy mutts,” John said, and he slid off of Roscoe’s back, leading him over to an open end of the stable. “Stay here, boy.”

Roscoe offered no reply, busying himself by dropping his face into a trough of water which, surprisingly, was not frozen.

John ascended the steps to the front doors, the shine of ice and the sheer expanse of the stairs making him cautious. When he reached the front door, it swung open before John could knock, the carved wood entryway easily big enough to let Roscoe walk in sideways. “Huh…”

Inside, the foyer had a series of four stairways, two of them leading to towers, the other two broken off in a fork that led to the east and to the west. The foyer itself was larger than his and Stiles’ home, and John looked up and admired the low hanging chandeliers. Though dragging dust and webs, their crystals sparkled in the faint light of a few candles glowing along the second floor landing.

“Hello? I don’t mean to intrude, but my horse and I got lost? And there were some… very rude wolves?” John called, and he turned to the sound of a throat clearing quietly.

“He lost his way in the woods,” a concerned voice said, and then there was a hiss.

“Keep quiet. He’ll go away,” a harsh voice replied, as if whispered from the corner of a mouth.

John swallowed harshly, smoothing his hands down his cloak, finding it wet with snow. He shrugged out of his cloak and hung it on a nearby coat rack, keeping his jacket on as he looked around the room.

There was a large end table carved out of dark wood, and on top of it sat a clock and a candelabra that was burning. John went over to the table and blinked, picking up the clock. He ran a thumb over the filigree and ornate carvings around the glass face, smiling. “Remarkable.” John looked at the candelabra and gasped, admiring the twists of gold metal and the intricately carved body that resembled a ballroom coat. “Beautiful.”

“Thank you, _monsieur!_ ” The candelabra said brightly, and John blinked, dazed.

“He was talking to me, idiot!” The clock said, and wriggled out of John’s grasp, landing on its face on the table.

John took a few timid steps back, pointing stupidly at the table. “I… Hm. Yeah. That’s not right.”

“Do not worry, _monsieur,_ you’ve not gone mad. It’s just very hard to ignore such a sweet compliment,” the candlestick said, bowing as it walked across the table on two very able legs. “You say you’ve lost your way in the woods, and the wolves, yes, they are very rude.”

“I’m sorry, I think I’m going to—“John said, and he staggered backward, head swooning. He was caught by the coatrack, who pushed him back to his feet gingerly.

“Oh, you are soaked and cold, clearly. And weary. Come; let us go sit by the fire. We can get you some tea!” The candelabra said, hopping off the table as the clock rolled over onto its side, then its back, frustrated as its glass face popped open.

“No. _No!_ No fire, no tea, what is _wrong_ with you?”

“ _Jackson,_ ” the candelabra snapped, and John followed it through the foyer down a hall to a large den with a massive armchair and a fire burning in a huge, yawning hearth.

“Oh… What a beautiful fireplace,” John said, remarking at the carved wolves and demon-eqsue creatures hidden in the wood of the long mantle.

“Yes, it used to be,” the candle said, and he gestured to the armchair.

“ _Not_ the Master’s _chair!_ ” The clock exclaimed, hopping across the floor as the coat rack hurried in with a blanket, draping it over John’s lap.

“I think I hit my head,” John said, and the candlestick laughed.

A tray came rolling in with a teapot, sugar dish, cream pot, and a small teacup on a saucer upon a silver tray. The teapot had a face, smiling eyes laid under makeup of painted gold and a mouth of rose pink.

“Oh, look at you, love. Nothing a bit of tea won’t fix,” the teapot said, her voice warm and comforting as she poured a full serving into the teacup. Two lumps of sugar jumped from the bowl into the cup, and a spoon stirred itself into the warm amber liquid.

The teacup spun around, smiling up at John with the same beautifully painted face as the pot, if not much softer. Golden curls twisted down from the rim of the cup like an unruly mop of hair, and John’s hand hesitated beside the cup’s handle.

“Watch out for the chip,” the teacup said, tilting sideways, indicating the small cut in his porcelain rim. His voice was small, and it reminded John of Stiles about twelve years ago.

“Uhm… thank you,” John said, and he lifted the cup. Then he set it back down. “I’m sorry, it just seems really rude to drink out of… a talking cup.”

The teacup laughed, and the pot steamed at him, smiling. “Thank you, sir. That’s a kind thought.”

John set the cup down and settled back into the armchair, pulling the blanket up over him. “I’m still very confused about all this, but I’m still going with the head injury idea.”

“We don’t get many visitors here, so it is hard to explain,” the candelabra said, and he hopped onto the cart and sat down beside the teapot. “But you are welcome to stay till morning. It’s dangerous out there at night, and very cold.”

John coughed into the crook of his elbow, his head starting to ache. “Well… Maybe I will have some tea, then.”

“Ha!” The teacup cheered, to which the teapot sternly said, “Isaac.”

John took a long drink, the tea settling warm in his belly. “Thank you.”

The clock toddled over, wringing his golden hands together as he paced at the edge of the carpet by the fire. “This is bad. _Stupid_ and bad.”

“Come now, Jackson, he’s an old man,” the candle said, and John frowned, looking down at himself. His hair was light, but it wasn’t grey. He was still young by standards, wasn’t he?

“But the Master—“

A roar echoed somewhere deeper into the castle, and John sprang up out of the armchair, looking up and the ceiling. “What was that?” He asked, already staggering backwards from the fire. It had sounded like a bear fighting with a wolf, and it made the chandelier on the ceiling rattle, crystal drops clinking together as they shook.

“It’s _Maître!_ ” The candelabra waved his arms at John, and he looked thoroughly apologetic. “Go, _monsieur._ You must go!”

“Go? But you said wolves! And danger!” John snapped indignantly.

“You would be better off with the wolves,” the clock said, dragging the carpet up over his small body as the coat rack offered John his cloak.

“Stick to the path, and don’t slow down!” The candlestick said hastily, and there was a rumbling upstairs, and another low, snarling sound.

John looked at the teapot and cup on the tray, then down at the candle. He yanked his cloak on and backed up out the door. “Thank you!”

Outside the snow was quiet and heavy, and John ran down the stairs two at a time, grabbing Roscoe by the reins and tugging him out of the stable. “Come on, boy. Come on!” The horse protested, neighing as John mounted him and urged him into the hedges.

John halted, pulling on Roscoe’s reins as he caught sight of a large white-carved gazebo, vines crawling over the pillars. “Roses… Roses! I forgot about the rose,” John said, and he slid off of Roscoe’s back and went over to the roses.

They were white as the snow, and after everything he had seen, John wasn’t concerned about why a whole pavilion of roses wasn’t dead in this snowy wasteland. He reached into one of the bushes and broke off a long stem, the rose shedding gentle flakes of ice as he shook it.

And then there was a snarl behind him, no longer muffled by walls and stone floors, and John turned around as a hulking shadow leapt off the ledge of the castle, landing beside him on massive paws, horns casting long shadows over a cloaked head.

Roscoe neighed, rearing up before he turned tail and charged through the hedges, and John dropped the rose, stumbling back and falling into the snow as a long, dark muzzle roared right in his face.

**

Stiles was sitting at the side of the washing fountain reading, having used his brain to give him extra time. He had strapped a spinning barrel to the small saddle of a borrowed donkey, and said donkey was walking circles around the fountain, churning the soapy water inside the barrel, washing the clothes.

A small girl propped her elbows on the edge of the fountain, peering curiously at the donkey. “What’s he doing?”

Stiles smiled. “The laundry. Wanna see?”

Pausing, the girl nodded.

It only took a few minutes to explain the contraption and how Stiles had managed to get it to work, and then he sat down on the fountain and the girl followed. “Are they teaching you how to read in school?” Stiles asked, and she shook her head. Frowning, Stiles turned his book over and opened it. “Well, that’s no good. Here, I’ll show you. It’s easy. Most words look the way they sound, anyway.”

The girl beamed up at him, and Stiles held his finger under a line and read it aloud. “Now you try.”

“One book reader is enough around here. You want the whole town reading books and having _ideas?_ ”

Stiles looked up at a handful of villagers who were looking at him and the little girl with disdain, one of them being the school’s headmaster. “Uh… yes? But seeing as your job is too hard, I could do it for you, if you’d like.”

*

Parrish leaned against the corner of the flower shop, and he watched with a pinch of irritation as the villagers picked on Stiles, dumping his laundry onto the stone street. Craning his neck around the wall, he saw Peter admiring his own reflection in a mirror, brows creased and smile dashing.

Sighing, Parrish pushed off the wall and stepped in beside Peter. “Have I caught you at a bad time?” Peter turned to him, expression one of mild annoyance and embarrassment. “A certain damsel is in distress?”

Peter looked back in the mirror and grinned, smoothing his hair back with a swift palm. “If you insist, Parrish.”

*

Stiles had rinsed his laundry briefly and was toting the heavy basket back to his house in a fit of muttering and stomping when Peter caught his shoulder.

“Stiles! I heard you had a little trouble with the headmaster,” Peter said sympathetically, and Stiles huffed indignantly.

“I was just trying to teach a little girl how to read. How backwards is this town that an eight year old can’t read?”

Peter shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you just how so. But, really, the only children you should concern yourself with should be your own.”

Stiles groaned up at the sky. “Who said I wanted children?”

“You know, would you like some advice? About the villagers?” Peter said, and he tugged on Stiles’ shoulder as they reached Stiles’ yard, and Stiles softened his glare to look up at Peter. “It’s better to try and blend in around here. Being a headstrong, pretty boy is not going to earn their affections.”

“Pretty?” Stiles said, like the word tasted bad.

“You know what happens to very pretty, very headstrong _girls_ when their fathers die? They end up like… well, Lydia,” Peter said, and he looked over his shoulder at the corner where the woman in question was begging for change.

Stiles swallowed. Lydia was very pretty, for being a handful of years older than him, but she was worn and tired, always dirty, always wearing the same dress. She was an outcast in the town, and Stiles was pretty sure she didn’t even live in a house. He looked down at his own feet.

“Now, can you imagine a very pretty, very headstrong _boy?_ ” Peter sighed, taking Stiles’ shoulders in his hands. “You need someone to take care of you. You need a strong, handsome husband who can provide for you.”

“I don’t see why my gender makes the difference, but I don’t think having a brain and an aesthetically constructed face makes me a menace to society,” Stiles huffed, and he twisted out of Peter’s grasp and went up the front steps of his small home. “And I see no reason why my hu-heh… _husband_ —or maybe my wife!—would need to be handsome. Or beautiful! It’s much more important to me to care about what’s inside the person rather than worry myself with the angles of their bone structure.”

Peter caught the back of Stiles’ apron and tugged. “Stiles, please.”

Stiles pushed the door open with the basket and then dropped it, turning to glare at Peter a step below him.

“Do you not like my bone structure?”

Stiles blinked, looking down at the chickens. They clucked, completely unhelpful. “Uhm.”

“I ask so little of you, you know.”

“I’m not sure you understand what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking for _you_.”

Stiles fought down a bodily shudder. “Peter… Listen…”

Peter looked up at him earnestly. Well, as earnest as Peter could be.

“We could never make each other happy. We’re just too—different.”

“Opposites attract, Stiles.”

“Not quite. Think magnets,” Stiles said. “We are _that_ kind of opposite. Or is it similar… Now I’ve confused myself. The ones that push. There’s no attraction!”

“What?”

“It’s a no, Peter. That’s all you need to understand. No.”

“No to what?”

“No to _you_. I’ll never marry you, Peter. I’m sorry.”

“People change, Stiles!”

“Not that much!” Stiles spun around, hopped up his stairs, and slammed the front door shut. He leaned against it, pushing out a long, winded sigh.

*

Stiles waited a good hour before he poked his head out of the front door, scanning the streets. Seeing nobody around, he swung the door open and then slammed it behind him as he stepped onto the porch. “Can you believe that?” He balked at the chickens. “As if I’d ever marry him. Me! Married to that boorish, brainless—“Stiles broke off with a frustrated shriek, throwing a handful of seed at the chickens. “Sorry!”

He stomped out of the garden, out of the yard, and then up one of the back streets.

“Not me; never. I guarantee it.” He looked up at the blue sky, walking faster, faster, until he was running out of the village, that same echo of longing spilling through his heart.

_There must be more, there has to be more than this._

Stiles found himself on one of the flowering hills beyond the village, the wildflowers bowing to the breeze, clouds on the horizon shining gold where they were touched by sunlight. Stiles looked out into the forests, the surrounding hillsides, and he felt there was something out there for him. He felt that need, that call; he felt that somehow there was an adventure out there waiting just for him, and his heart hurt with the weight of it.

He fell to his knees in the flowers and then laid down, the grass tickling his bare arms and his neck, and Stiles breathed in the damp earth and sweet flowers until his head was dizzy with it.

It was an hour or two before he heard a distant, familiar neighing, and when Stiles sprang up in the grass he could see a golden spot galloping down the hillside road that led to the forest.

“Roscoe?”

Stiles scrambled to his feet, and he ran down the hill as fast as he could, running through the village and arriving at his house to find Roscoe with his head bowed over his water trough. His fur was caked in mud from the side of his belly and shoulders down, and he wore the remnants of the cinch belt and straps that tied him to the wagon cart arms.

“Roscoe! Where’s dad?” Stiles grabbed him by the bridle, pulling his face up. Roscoe pawed at him, ears laying back as he neighed. “ _Where is he?_ ” Stiles was growing panicked now, and he watched the horse shake his head and stomp the ground before he turned and looked towards the forest.

Stiles bit his lip, and he rushed to the small shed beside the house, pulling Roscoe’s saddle out. He dropped it on the ground beside the horse and then tripped up the stairs, grabbing his cloak off of the coat rack.

Roscoe nickered tiredly as Stiles saddled him up, and when he switched out his bridle Stiles grabbed Roscoe by the bangs and pulled his head down. “I know you’re tired… but you have to take me to him. You understand? You have to take me to dad!”

**

The path Roscoe took was unfamiliar, and at a point he galloped past a tree that was downed by lightning, taking Stiles into a shadowy tunnel of trees and fog that soon became an ice and snow-crusted stretch of forest.

Stiles hugged his cloak tighter around himself, yanking on Roscoe’s reins when they passed the wagon, tossed onto its side, covered in a fresh layer of snow. “Dad…” Roscoe neighed, and then he continued on.

He ran through the forest at a frantic pace, despite being worn out, and Stiles realized why when he heard a howl in the distance. But by that time they had come upon a huge iron gate hanging open between a wall of hedges grown over fencing, and Stiles let Roscoe walk through the maze of hedges, slowing when they reached a large stone courtyard.

Stiles gaped up at the castle, sliding off of Roscoe’s back. He was uncomfortably cold, and his stomach hurt from worrying, but Stiles went up the stairs and rapped his knuckles on the door. It swung open, despite the lack of force, and Stiles hesitated in the yawning doorway.

“Hello?” He stepped inside, snow dusting off of his boots as he walked into a wide foyer. Stiles tugged his hood off, spinning in a small circle as he looked up at the vaulted ceiling and chandeliers, the second floor landing and the long stairways.

There was a quick series of whispers somewhere to his right, and Stiles jolted, spinning around. His brows furrowed, and Stiles turned and looked into the other room.

“Is it… he’s a boy?”

“Yes, a boy. I can see he’s a boy, idiot.”

“But a very pretty boy, eh?”

“Hmph. He’s alright, I suppose.”

“This is no time for jealousy! This could work!”

Stiles stomped his foot. “Is anyone here? I’m looking for my father!”

There was a shuffling, a metallic clang, and then, “Scott, nonononononono,” in a very fast, angry whisper. Stiles turned back to the far side of the room, and he saw a table with an ornately carved clock on it.

“What the—”a bright lighted glowed behind Stiles, and he turned and looked at one of the narrow staircases that led into the towers. A light was fading up the stairs, and Stiles’ heart jumped. “Wait!” He ran into the tower, hurrying up the stairs after the light. “Wait, I’m just looking for my dad!”

The tower was cold, and Stiles was winded by the time he came to a landing. There was another small set of stairs, and then a large room Stiles couldn’t see into. The light glowed inside.

Stiles ran the rest of the way, nearly tripping as he came to a dungeon chamber, several heavy iron doors shut to small cells, a candelabra burning beside one. “Hello?”

There was a shuffle, and then pale hands gripped the bars of one of the cells. “Stiles?”

Stiles inhaled so fast he nearly choked. “ _Dad!_ ” He ran over to the cell, sliding onto his knees when he got close enough, taking his dad’s hands through the bars.

John shivered, turning his face so he could cough into his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing here, you crazy boy?”

“I came to find _you_ , old man. Roscoe brought me!”

“That horse is too smart for his own good,” John said, and he coughed again, harder, shoulders racking.

“Your hands are like ice. My god, you’re really sick, dad,” Stiles said, and he looked at the damp sweep of his father’s bangs across his forehead and the lack of his cloak. He only wore his long jacket and waistcoat, his trousers and boots muddy. Stiles felt a flush of anger rise up in his chest, and his brows pinched together when he said, “I have to get you out of here.”

“Stiles, listen to me,” John said, and he released one of Stiles’ hands to reach up and grab his chin. “You have to leave, son. Right now.”

“Who did this? What happened?” Stiles was outraged, and he wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding just how angry he was.

“There’s no time to explain, son. Just go, please, right now. This castle—it’s alive. And there’s—”

Somewhere above them a door slammed, and then Stiles heard a sound that twisted ice in his stomach, echoing off the walls like something from a childhood nightmare coming for him in the dark.

“What _was_ that? Sounded like an animal… a really _big_ one!”

“It’s him—it’s the Beast!” John said quickly, and he took Stiles face in his hands and shook him. “Son, you have to go. You have to run right now!” John started coughing again.

“What? No!”

Another roar echoed off the walls, closer now, and then a voice. “What are you doing here?” It was deep and strong, and chills broke out on Stiles’ skin at the harsh snarl of it. It was hardly human.

“Who’s there? Who are you?” Stiles said, fingers tense on John’s hand and the cell bars.

“I’m the Master of this castle. Who are _you_ and what are you _doing_ here?” The Beast growled.

Stiles stood up, fighting down his rising fear. It was dark, save for the light coming through the stone window and the candelabra on the ledge beside the cell door. Across the way he could see a stairwell and a dark door. A shadow emerged from it. “I’ve come for my father. Let him go; can’t you see he’s sick?” Stiles’ voice grew in urgency, and at the top of the far staircase the shadow moved. It leapt, passing through the beam of light, landing not far from Stiles.

“He’s a thief. And a trespasser. He came into my castle with no invitation and then stole a rose from my garden,” the Beast snarled, the silhouette towering over Stiles, close enough that Stiles could see… horns.

Stiles balked, “A rose? I asked for the rose, punish me!”

“Stiles, be quiet. Go, get out of here. Go home,” John snapped.

“I won’t leave you here,” Stiles snapped back, standing closer to the cell door. “Take me instead.”

“You? You would take his place?” The Beast growled and Stiles took a bold step forward.

“If I did, would you let him go?”

“Stiles!”

Stiles looked up at the Beast, catching the flick of ears in the dark. Ears like a wolf.

“Yes. But you would stay here forever,” the growling voice said.

“Forever? For a _rose?_ ”

“ _I_ received eternal damnation for one. I’m just locking _him_ up,” Beast snapped.

Stiles took a small step back, closer to the cell. His fingers touched the stone ledge that the candelabra was sitting on, and he looked up where he thought the Beast’s face would be. “Come into the light.”

The Beast growled, turning away. Stiles grabbed the candelabra and held it up, the bright light washing over the Beast as he turned back to snarl at Stiles.

Stiles gasped, but he didn’t flinch away.

The Beast stood upright, towering over Stiles with his broad shoulders. Growling, he stepped back into the shaft of bright wintery light coming through the far window.

He had massive paws, a thick tail swishing across the dusty, leaf-covered floor. A thick, dragging cape of heavy red material was clasped across his broad chest with tarnished silver, and his hands—paws—were bigger than both Stiles’ hands put together, tipped with long black claws. He had a mane of thick black fur, and horns curling back from the top of his head like dragons Stiles had seen in books. Triangular ears folded back against his head. Every inch of him was covered in smooth black fur, and Stiles was taken back by his face most of all.

His face was long and sharp like a wolf, muzzle wrinkled with lips pulled back over long, fine-white teeth in a snarl. He had green eyes, but they burnt darkly with rage.

Stiles set the candelabra down, fingers trembling. “I…”

There was a snarl, and then John was grabbing at Stiles’ arm and tugging on him frantically. He spun Stiles around and reached through the bars, grabbing Stiles’ chin again, forcing him to look at him. “Stiles, listen to me. I’m old, I’ve lived my life. I lost your mother, I will not lose you too. Now, you will get your ass home and that’s the end of this conversation.”

Stiles opened his mouth, and his father hushed him again. “Okay, dad, okay… Alright. I’ll go.” Stiles looked at the Beast. “I need a minute with him…”

The Beast snarled, and Stiles thought of a feral wolf when he saw that face cringe and scrunch at him. Not that Stiles had ever seen a wolf in person, but he’d seen dogs angry enough. This thing would have scared even the fiercest hunting dog, Stiles was sure.

“You’re that cold-hearted, you won’t let me say goodbye to my father? You can give me one minute with him, you’re taking him from me forever,” Stiles said coldly, and those large ears pricked forward slightly.

Growling under his breath, the Beast grabbed a metal lever, not meeting Stiles’ eyes when he yanked it down and opened the cell door. The metal clanged loudly, the doorway cleared. “When this door closes, it won’t open again.”

Stiles rushed into the cell, throwing his arms around his dad, spinning them slightly while his father tried to get his balance. “Dad!”

“It’s going to be alright, Stiles. I know you’ll be alright. Don’t be afraid,” John said, petting Stiles’ head, and Stiles squeezed him tightly.

“I know, dad… I’m not afraid,” Stiles murmured. He looked up at the Beast, standing close to the lever of the cell door. “It’s gonna be alright.” Stiles fit his foot between his father’s, and he pulled his foot back at the same time that he pushed forward with his hands.

John tripped over Stiles’ heel, then over his own feet, and he stumbled out of the cell and fell against the wall across from the Beast. Stiles grabbed the edge of the cell door and slammed it shut, feeling the lock teeth bite into their grooves with a loud clang.

The Beast stepped into his view, glaring down at him, something like surprise in his harsh eyes. “You took his place.”

“He’s my dad,” Stiles said easily.

The Beast growled. “He’s a fool, and so are you.” He grabbed John by the back of his coat with one massive paw then dragged him across the floor. As if an afterthought, the Beast grabbed the candelabra with surprising force, snarling with his teeth bared.

“Stiles… Stiles, no!” John shouted, his mild confusion quickly clearing as he saw Stiles slide down onto his knees through the bars of the cell gate. John coughed, reaching for Stiles with a shaking arm.

“It’s okay, dad! It’s alright,” and then he said to the Beast, “Don’t hurt him!”

Soon, Stiles could no longer hear his father’s cries, the sound of his name being called, coughing, and then, Stiles could only hear the cold wind rushing past the window.

Stiles’ throat was tight, and he brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He pressed his face against his knees, breathing deeply through his nose, slowly out of his mouth. His fingers were shaking.

It could have been minutes, but it felt like much longer before there was a growling, hulking Beast at the door of the cell, the candelabra looking different in his massive paw. He reached out and yanked on the lock switch, and the cell door slid open loudly. Stiles scrambled back from the opening, watching as the Beast held the candle out in a gesture for him to follow.

“I thought once this door closed it wouldn’t open again,” Stiles said dryly, and the Beast’s ears laid back.

“Are you going to be sarcastic in a cell forever or are you going to shut your mouth for a minute and follow me to your room?”

Stiles blinked, fussing with the buttons on his vest. He wrapped his blue cloak around himself tighter and hugged his arms around himself, rocking on his feet. “My, m-my, uh, my room?”

The Beast growled, muzzle scrunching, and then Stiles heard a voice, very, very quietly grumble, “ _Ah, ah._ Calm. Gentle.”

Tail sweeping across the floor, the Beast turned away and started walking. “Yes. Your room. Come on, before I change my mind.”

Stiles blinked, and then he looked around the small space he was in. Maybe it was some kind of joke. There was no reason for the Beast to offer him a room when he seemed perfectly content to let his father freeze to death in the small tower cell. Maybe the Beast would lead Stiles to a secluded area of the castle and push him off a balcony. Or take him to the kitchen and eat him. He looked like he ate well.

“Are you coming?!” The Beast snarled, the sound startling Stiles into motion, and he hurried out of the cell and down the stairs, catching up to the huge black wolf.

The Beast grumbled, walking forward when he was sure that Stiles was behind him following. Stiles looked up at the sculptures along the long hallways, taking in their snarling faces and long tongues and curled horns. He looked back at the Beast, broad shoulders hunched forward, ears no longer flat but tipped forward like an interested dog.

Well… Apparently, Stiles thought, sparing the gargoyles another glance, the Beast could look worse. At least his horns were long and polished, anyway.

Stiles gasped when he slammed into the Beast from behind, who had stopped walking at the V between two sets of stairs. Stiles realized they were in the foyer, the front door and the windows beside it beckoning him, teasing him.

The Beast grumbled, looking over his shoulder as Stiles took a small step back. “The gardens are cold. If you go outside, wear a coat or something.” Stiles heard another bit of quick words, like before, and he watched the Beast fight an eye roll. “I’ll take you to your room now. It’s in the East Wing. You can go anywhere you like there.”

“What about the rest of the castle?” Stiles asked instantly.

“The kitchen and dining room, maybe. Maybe. Just stay out of the West Wing,” the Beast said, and he began ascending the flight of stairs closest to them.

“What’s in the West—“

“ _Stay_ **_out_ ** _of the_ **_West Wing_ ** ,” Beast snarled, his cloak brushing Stiles when he spun to glare at him.

“ _Maître,_ be nice,” that voice said again, and Stiles stood onto his toes.

“Who said that?”

The Beast growled and went up the stairs, and, helpless to do otherwise, Stiles followed.

They came to a long landing with many doors, and the Beast opened a white one carved with pale gold brocade. Dust plumed in the doorway when he shoved it open.

“If you need anything, my servants will attend you,” the Beast said, and Stiles stepped into the room.

It was bigger than his house in the village, the ceiling high and painted with fields and horses and gold, the windows large, stained glass fixtures, though their images were lost to the weather. The bed itself was an island, heavy curtains draping from the four posts, too many pillows for Stiles to count at the head. He paused.

“Servants?” He turned to the Beast, who stuffed the candelabra into Stiles’ hand.

“Yes. Servants. Which you are not. You’re a prisoner. So I can’t tell you what to _do_ , apparently, I can just tell you not to _leave_ ,” the Beast was growing increasingly angered, as if the words weren’t his own and saying them was a repetition of something he didn’t want to hear.

Stiles glared up at him. “Great, that sounds swell. Thanks. Glad I’m just a _prisoner_ and not a _servant_ ,” he grumbled, and the Beast stood up taller, ears laying back again.

Stiles swallowed, blinking up at him when the candelabra in his hand hopped free and stepped across the floor, flames flickering as the arms moved in a universal _shoo, shoo_ manner.

“That’s quite enough, _Maître_. Go and rest; and have Jackson and Mrs. McCall come up here!” The candlestick said, and Stiles stumbled back, falling onto the foot of the bed.

The Beast stooped down, growling at the flames before he went onto all fours and skulked out of the room. His back paw caught the door and yanked it forward, and it slammed shut. A bit of plaster from the ceiling fell and cracked into dust over the candelabra’s head.

“Oh!” It said sharply.

“You just talked,” Stiles said, and he realized he was pointing. He slapped his hand down into his lap, gawking as the candlestick turned around and smiled… Smiled at him. With a face, carved into the golden stem. Stiles realized then that the candelabra had on a well-sculpted coat and legs, though no hands. Just candle holders.

“ _Oui,_ I talk,” it said, and then there was a banging against the door.

“That’s all you ever do, Scott. Let me in _right_ **_now_ ** ,” a voice said on the other side of the door, and the candle—Scott?—hopped up and swung from the door latch.

“Of course, Jackson! Ever so patient; you sound just like the Master,” Scott said, and he jerked his body in a motion that yanked the door handle down. It swung open and a clock walked in—the clock that had been on the long table when Stiles first arrived.

“Abandoning me downstairs, giving the Master orders, letting yourself be in a room _alone_ with this peasant—what’s next? You’ve gone rusted in the head!” The clock said, tottering back and forth on its little legs. His glass panel popped open when Scott patted him on the back, a sprinkling of gears and tiny bolts flying free, skittering across the floor.

“Now, now, Jackson, introductions are in order. You’re being rude,” Scott said.

The clock—Jackson—waved him off. “I’m being perfectly civil. Good evening, _monsieur,_ I am Jackson, head of the household.” Scott pushed him out of the way, bowing gracefully. “This is Scott. A candle holder.”

“Offended,” Scott said, and he blew out one of his arm candles and held it out. Without really knowing what was going on, Stiles offered his hand, and Scott kissed the back of it as if Stiles were a young maid. “ _En chanté,_ ” he said, and Stiles laughed uncomfortably.

There was an excited barking coming from the hallway, and Stiles got to his feet in excitement as the sound grew closer. “You have a dog?”

“Well,” Jackson said, and then he was promptly trampled by a blue and gold footrest charging through the door, yapping and pawing at Stiles’ feet.

“Oh, wow,” Stiles said, reaching down to pat the footstool at it ran away from him, over to his wardrobe.

The doors sprang open with a yawn—a literal yawn—and then the wardrobe was stretching and fawning. “Oh, there’s my Frou Frou, oh, precious baby! You left daddy all alone downstairs?”

“Ahem, _Madame Reyes_ , we have a guest,” Scott said, and the wardrobe turned its curtained face towards Stiles.

“Oh. Oh! Oh, he’s so _pretty!_ ” She exclaimed, and then Stiles was being ushered over by the footstool—dog. “What a pretty face; prettier than most girls, I’d say.”

“That’s why this won’t _work_ ,” Jackson hissed at Scott, and Scott smacked him in the glass panel with his sconce. The panel popped open.

“Oh, uhm, thank you,” Stiles said, and then the wardrobe was touching his face with cold, metal arms.

“No. Not pretty. Beautiful. Terribly handsome,” the wardrobe corrected, and Stiles felt himself blush. Pretty, he had heard. But beautiful? “I’m Erica, Erica Reyes, lovely. And you are?”

“Stiles,” he replied.

“ _Stiles!_ What a pretty name!”

“It’s, uh, it’s a nickname. I’m not a fan of my real name. It means,” Stiles said awkwardly, ringing his hands together, “beauty.”

“And a beauty you are! I will dress you like a Prince, I promise you!” With that, Erica held a hand over what Stiles thought would be her heart and sang out a very lovely soprano aria.

Stiles was mesmerized by the beauty of the sound before Erica’s voice broke off into a yawn, and Jackson was scuttling across the floor. “Erica was once a very famous singer in Paris. Now we can barely keep her awake.”

“Could not keep me awake before,” Erica said, and her draws popped open, a great deal of ribbon and satin and lace springing out, followed by a handful of moths. “Oh, oh my.” Frou Frou burrowed into the puddle of fabric, barking.

Stiles turned as a voice called Scott’s name, one melodious and bright, and a beautifully carved white feather duster drifted in on pale ceramic wings. She floated into Scott’s arms, his flames dying down instantly as he spun her. “ _Mon amour_ , Allison, this is Stiles.” She turned to him and curtsied, spreading her lovely white wings.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Stiles. I’ll have your room clean for you in just a moment, alright?” Allison said.

Stiles nodded. “Th-thank you.”

Then she turned to Scott and whispered softly, “This is risky. He’s not a… he’s a...”

“He’s the one, _mon amour_. And risky it may be, I would do anything to kiss your face again.”

Jackson groaned _loudly,_ and Allison and Scott broke apart, clearing their throats before Allison fluttered to work. She glided gracefully around the room, dusting a small patch of gold here, a bit of bed there, and Stiles staggered backwards into Erica when the room was spotless a minute later.

Erica yawned again, and she closed her drawers. “Go and see what is for dinner. And Frou Frou, send my love to the _Maestro!_ ” As she said it, Erica drifted back into seemingly deep, comfortable slumber.

The footstool—Frou Frou—barked and yapped excitedly, and then ran out of the room.

“ _Monseiur,_ we shall see you in just a short while, ah? What you need is dinner!” Scott said, and he strolled out of the room, followed by the fluttering Allison and Jackson, who toddled indignantly, muttering something under his breath.

The door closed behind them and Stiles backed up, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He pressed his elbows to his knees and dropped his face into his hands, releasing a frustrated, scratchy shriek.

**

Peter lounged across his leather armchair beside the hearth of the tavern, the commotion in the background giving him zero stimulus from his swelling irritation.

Parrish sat beside him on a bench, nursing his beer.

“Who does he think he is? After how nice I’ve been to him,” Peter grumbled, looking down at his own untouched beverage. “Turning me down, refusing my proposal. I can’t…”

Swishing his beer around in his glass, Parrish hummed. “Yes, it’s as if being simply polite to someone no longer deigns their affections or wins you their hand.”

“Exactly! God, Parrish, what is the world coming to?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Parrish said, and then downed the rest of his beer. He set his mug on the tray of a passing waitress and looked back at Peter. “Drinking might help.”

“I’ve been rejected. Disgraced. I can’t take this,” Peter groaned, and he slouched down further in his chair.

Parrish took his beer mug from him and drank it in three long gulps. “You know… Peter.” Peter looked up at him. “There are other pretty boys in town,” Parrish said, and then he hiccupped. “ _Or!_ Or, uh, very pretty girls,” he said, and then gestured to the Bimbettes, watching Peter brood with fluttering eyelashes and dreamy expressions.

“Why would a great hunter waste his time on rabbits?” Peter groaned. “That’s part of what makes Stiles so desirable. He’s never made a fool of himself trying to win my affection. What would you call that?”

“Dignity?”

Peter slapped a hand over his face.

Parrish sighed, leaning his arm around the back of the chair. “It’s very disturbing to see you like this, Peter. You’re so low right now, it’s like you’ve become another man.”

“Maybe Stiles would marry a lower man,” Peter said beneath his hand.

Parrish grabbed his wrist and tossed his hand down, huffing. “You know, every guy in this tavern would love to be you, Peter; even in the sorry state you’re in. You’re everyone’s favorite guy—everyone in town admires you!”

Peter nodded, huffing. “Almost everyone.”

“Come on, Peter, you can ask any Tom, Dick or Harr— _Liam!_ ” Parrish snagged the young man’s arm as he tried to walk by, yanking at his sleeve, nearly spilling his beer. “Isn’t Peter just better than everyone at everything?”

Liam blinked, bright eyes flitting between Parrish and Peter’s faces. He flushed. “Obviously.”

“See? No one’s as talented a hunter, or as strong a fighter. No one has that ador— _er._ Swell cleft in their chin!” At that he tapped Peter’s chin, and Peter batted his hand away.

“Parrish!”

Liam nodded, and Parrish hopped off his bench and raised his hands over his head. “Everybody! Who was the bravest Captain in the war?”

Someone yelled Peter’s name.

“And who hunted every pair of antlers and every fuzzy little head hanging on these walls?”

A few more voices said Peter, and then there was a clinking of beer mugs and a cheer.

“And _who_ is the strongest, most handsome, most definitely _not_ disgraceful man in all of France?” Parrish said, and the entire tavern cheered Peter’s name. The Bimbettes squealed, their agreement to the statement much stronger than what was needed.

“See? We all love you, Peter!” Parrish said, and a few of the closer men grabbed Peter’s shoulders, patting and shaking him with hearty grunts.

Peter sighed, smiling. “Thank you, Parrish. I needed that.”

“Well, no one’s as easy to bolster as you,” Parrish said, grinning as a few people started stomping their feet, someone playing a fiddle loudly beside the small harpsichord at the back of the tavern. Parrish grabbed Peter’s wrist and yanked him up. “Let’s dance, Peter. Let’s dance and just get super drunk!”

“You’re halfway there already,” Peter said, but he still grabbed two girls and pulled them onto a table, twirling and kicking as the tavern stomped and cheered and spilled beer on themselves.

The atmosphere in the bar was warm and energized, and it seemed like it had been hours before Peter fell back into his chair beside the fireplace, the cheers dying out with upbeat clapping, laughter turning to tired sighs.

Parrish slouched on the arm of Peter’s chair, raking a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

Peter slapped his hand on Parrish’s knee, panting, laughing still. “Oh, Parrish, how is it no girl has snatched you up yet?”

Looking into the fire, Parrish thought about that for a minute. Then he looked back at Peter. “I think I’m just too busy with other things.”

Nodding, Peter knocked his head back against his chair. “I can see that.”

The door of the tavern slammed open, the cool night air gusting in with a scatter of leaves as John stumbled in, coughing.

“Help… Somebody, help, it’s Stiles,” he said, still coughing as a few of the men rushed over to him.

“Easy, John, sit down,” one of them said, and John shook them off, shaking his head.

“You don’t understand; it’s got Stiles in a dungeon.”

Peter sat bolt upright, turning to look at John. “Did he say dungeon?”

“I’m surprised you heard anything other than Stiles,” Parrish muttered, sliding off the chair’s arm.

“What about Stiles, John? Where is he?” Someone asked, and John cleared his throat, gasping.

“He’s in a dungeon. It locked him in the castle dungeon.”

“Who did?”

“A Beast! A monstrous Beast!” John snapped.

The tavern was quiet for a moment, and then there were a few confused chuckles, and then outright laughter.

“John, are you not feeling well?”

“A beast, huh? What did it look like?”

John leaned against the bar, coughing. “It was… it was awful. It had horns, and the face of a wolf. It had to be ten feet tall!”

Everyone laughed harder, hysterical.

Catching his breath, John shook his head. “Why is that funny? My son is in danger, and you’re laughing?”

“You’ve lost it, John,” someone said, and then everyone laughed even harder still.

“Everyone, shut up!” Peter’s voice shouted, and they all turned to see him getting up out of his chair. “How could you laugh at John like that? He’s obviously very stressed right now, and sick as well! John… where is this castle? I’ll help you get Stiles back.”

“You… _Peter_ ,” John said skeptically.

Peter smiled, nodding.

Still looking distrusting, John nodded. “Alright… I’ll take any help I can get.”

Peter clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Come along, Parrish!”

Parrish had slid into Peter’s empty chair, and he groaned at the ceiling.

**

Stiles was lying on the bed staring pensively at the ceiling of his prison cell of a room. He had thought about tying some of the ribbons and curtains together to make a rope to climb out the window, but his room overlooked a particularly nasty cliffside. Therefore, Stiles had given up in the favor of lying on the bed hating everything.

There was a small knock at his door.

“Who is it?” Stiles called, then, sarcastically, “The candle or the clock?”

There was a laugh on the other side of the door, feminine and warm, and then the door clicked open. Stiles sat up on his elbows as a tea cart rolled in. The pot smiled at him, and Stiles’ lips pressed to a fine line as he sat up all the way.

“Mrs. McCall, hon, it’s so lovely to meet you,” the teapot said, and Stiles felt like she was looking at him more intently than the other objects had. “My, you are just lovely, aren’t you? Can’t trust Scott’s opinion on people’s looks, you see; he thinks everyone is beautiful in their own fashion, but you. Oh, my.”

Stiles flushed and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Thank you.”

“You know, I find a nice cup of tea soothes nerves and worries of all sorts,” Mrs. McCall said, and she poured a splash of light amber tea into a small cup.

The teacup shimmied awkwardly as a few sugar cubes jumped into it, a spoon stirring it up. “He’s really handsome, mama,” the teacup whispered, but rather loudly, and Stiles laughed.

“You too, little guy,” Stiles said, and he picked up the saucer and brought the cup to his face. “What’s your name?”

“Isaac,” the teacup said.

“Well, Isaac, it’s nice to meet you. I’m gonna take a drink now, okay?”

Isaac grinned up at him, and Stiles took a long sip of his tea. It was sweet and smooth, something Stiles’ dad may have made him if he was having trouble sleeping. Stiles brushed the back of his hand against his mouth, and Isaac said, “Wanna see me do a trick?”

Stiles sat back and watched Isaac take a deep breath, porcelain cheeks puffing up, bubbles blowing and popping on the surface of the tea.

“Isaac,” Mrs. McCall scolded with a laugh, and Isaac stopped, rosy cheeks darkening.

“Sorry,” he laughed.

Mrs. McCall looked up at Stiles, smiling sympathetically. “That was a very brave thing you did today, dear.”

Erica’s doors swung open with a yawn, and she nodded. “Yes, we… We all think so,” she said, and then she sighed, half asleep again.

Stiles set Isaac down on the tray and folded his hands in his lap. “It didn’t seem brave… I was just trying to protect my dad.”

“Well, seemly or not, it was brave of you. Very,” Mrs. McCall said, smiling. “In my opinion, everything turns out alright in the end. You’ll see. Oh! But here I am talking your ear off while there’s a supper to prepare.”

The cart rolled out of the room, and Isaac hopped up and called, “Bye!”

The door shut, and Stiles slumped against his bed, watching Erica shimmy awkwardly. “What are you doing over there?”

“Oh, well you see, love, I’m full of dresses. And you’re a boy, so I don’t think you want to wear a dress to dinner,” Erica said, laughing.

Stiles frowned. “I could wear a dress. I have nice legs.”

“Of course, sweetie,” Erica said, but when she opened her doors there was an array of coats, waistcoats in many colors, vests, and white blouses and dress shirts hanging from hooks. One of her drawers popped open and revealed rows of trousers, breeches, and leggings. “Your boots are actually quite cute, they’ll fit with most of these colors, I think. But I _do_ have black in here.”

Stiles sprang up and rushed over, a surprised smile breaking out across his face. “How did you—“

“I’m a talking wardrobe, sweetie. I can do things.”

Stiles touched a deep navy vest, and then a coat of emerald green. Everything had clearly been tailored exactly to his size, though he wasn’t sure how. Lace and detailed patterns laid into the fabric added detail and glamour to even the most simple of the vests, and Stiles thought to himself that these clothes would suit the taste of a prince. He frowned. “They’re beautiful… but I’m not going to dinner.”

Erica gasped, and it turned into a yawn. “But, the Master… you must…”

Stiles was quiet. “Erica?”

Erica was asleep.

Stiles moved to wake her again when his bedroom door cracked open.

Jackson stepped in, and he looked up at the ceiling and repressed a groan as he bowed. “Dinner is served. Ahem.”

**

Beast paced in front of the den fireplace on all fours, tail swiping the air, ears flat. His claws left marks in the carpet. “What’s taking so long? What’s he _doing_ up there?”

“ _Maître,_ perhaps it would be alright to wait in the dining room?” Scott offered from the mantelpiece.

Beast growled up at him.

The tea cart rolled in and Mrs. McCall tutted at them. “Master, you should be in the dining room.”

“Does anyone _else_ want to tell me where I should be?” Beast snarled, and he whipped around and continued pacing. There was a deep, frustrated growl rattling in Beast’s chest, and then he stood up. “Where _is_ he?!”

“Try to be patient, Master,” Mrs. McCall said, and Allison fluttered onto the tray beside her. “The boy has lost his father and freedom in one day.”

Scott cleared his throat. “Speaking of, _Maître,_ I found myself telling Jackson about a fantastic idea,” he said, and Beast sat down, raking his claws through his mane.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“But, De— _Maître…_ It is about the boy.”

“I don’t want to hear more about the boy,” Beast groaned tiredly.

“Do you want to break the spell or not?” Scott huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

It was quiet, Beast looking down at the carpet, and then he sighed. “He’s not going to break the spell.”

“But he could be the one!” Scott said, and he leapt off the mantle and landed on the tea cart beside Mrs. McCall.

Beast growled, looking into the fireplace. “Yes… Maybe he could.”

“Perfect!” Scott said, and shook out his candles. “So, you fall in love with him,” one sparked to a gold flame, “he falls in love with you,” the other followed, “and _poof!_ The spell is broken! We can be human again by the end of the week!”

“Oh, Scott, patience. These things take time,” Mrs. McCall said.

Scott waived a sconce at her. “I said the end of the week, not midnight. Besides, the rose has started to wilt.”

Growling, Beast turned to them, green eyes dark. “It’s no use… he’s so beautiful and I…” His face crinkled in a sneer and he bared his teeth at them. “Well, _look_ at me!”

Allison sighed. “You must help him see past all that.”

“See past my _face?_ ” Beast snarled.

“Past the _curse_ , Master,” she corrected lightly.

His ears twitched. “I don’t know how…”

Mrs. McCall huffed. “Well, you can start by making yourself more presentable. Straighten up! Try to act like a gentleman!”

Beast groaned, but he sat upright,  ears forward.

Nodding, Scott said, “You’re a pri—“

“ _Don’t_. Don’t call me that,” Beast snapped, and Scott blinked.

“A pre-pretty figure, after all. You should mind your posture,” Scott finished. “And when he comes in, I want you to give him a dashing, debonair smile.”

Beast’s ears laid down and his expression pinched.

“Come, come—show me the smile!”

Sighing, Beast smiled, a wide, stretching leer that showed all his teeth, brows lifted high.

“Ooh,” Allison flinched.

“Now, don’t frighten the boy,” Mrs. McCall said, and Beast wiped the smile from his face, a confused and almost worrisome expression taking its place.

“Impress him with your rapier wit!”

“But be gentle.”

“Shower him with compliments,” Scott added.

“But be sincere,” Mrs. McCall said.

Beast’s ears were pressed flat over his head, and he was looking between them, shrinking lower and lower into a crouch as their words bombarded him with an unpleasant stomach ache.

Allison cleared her throat, “Above all!”

The three of them said, “You must control your temper!”

The door to the den creaked, and Beast’s head snapped up, his mouth falling open, brows creasing tightly, expectantly.

Jackson’s face peered in, and he stepped into the doorway awkwardly. “Good evening.”

Beast’s expression fell, a scowl returning his features to normal. “Well? Where _is_ he?”

Clicking his small, metals hands together, Jackson rocked on his little feet. “Oh, ah! The boy! Stiles, yes, hum. Well, mm, he’s in the process of… This is, well, yes, hah, circumstances being what they are…”

Scott looked at him, and Jackson looked at Beast, his expression pinching tightly, a reaction to the calm before a storm. “He’s not coming.”

“WHAT?!”

Beast charged out of the den on all fours, pouncing up the stairs with Jackson, Scott, and Mrs. McCall calling loudly after him. He tore up the stairs and down the hall, arriving at Stiles’ bedroom door with a snarl. He banged on the wood, a mighty creak following each slam of his fist.

“WHY AREN’T YOU COMING TO DINNER?!”

“Master!” Jackson panted, and then he fell on his face when the tea cart zoomed past him, Scott waving his arms.

“ _Maître_ , gentle! Gentle!”

Through the door, Stiles sounded irritated. “I’m not hungry.”

“YOU’LL COME OUT AND EAT WITH ME OR I’LL BREAK DOWN THIS DOOR!”

“Go ahead! It’s not my door!”

Beast snarled, hackles rising.

Scott leapt off the tray and skittered to a half beside the door. “ _Maître_ , funny as it may seem, this may not be the best way to win the boy’s affections.”

Jackson had caught up then, and he took a small handful of Beast’s cloak in his small hand. “ _Please…_ attempt to be a gentleman.”

“But he is being so _difficult!_ ” Beast snapped, his voice quieter but no less enraged.

“ _Gently…_ ” Mrs. McCall said, and Isaac peeked out from around her side.

Beast rolled his eyes, back tense as he lifted his paw and knocked much, _much_ softer.

“…What?” Stiles said.

Taking his cloak in his fists, Beast said, “Will you come down to dinner?”

There was a squawking sound, as if Stiles had become suddenly avian. “No!”

Beast pointed at the door, looking down at his servants with his bottom lip jutted out, eyebrows arching high.

“Suave. Genteel,” Jackson said.

Tail swishing, Beast looked back at the door. “It would give me great pleasure… if you would join me for dinner.”

Jackson cleared his throat and looked away, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “Ahem, we say please…”

“…Please,” Beast grumbled.

“No, _thank_ you,” Stiles said. “I’m not hungry.”

Beast’s muzzle wrinkled and his ears immediately laid back, and he snarled, “You can’t stay in there forever!”

“Maybe I can!”

“Fine!” Beast shouted, and then he roared, “Then go ahead and STARVE!!” He glared down at the servants, shoulders shaking, hackles fluttering. “If he doesn’t eat with me, then he doesn’t eat at all!”

Beast turned and tore down the hall on all fours, lunging up the stairs to the West Wing. A moment later, a door slammed overhead, and Scott yelped when a bit of plaster fell from the ceiling and hit him over the candle head.

“Again?” Scott groaned.

“That didn’t go very well at all,” Mrs. McCall sighed.

“He’s never gonna come out now, is he, mama?” Isaac said.

Jackson scoffed. “If you ask me, the Master’s too good,” he said, and started walking off. “Scott, make sure he doesn’t eat! What the Master says goes.”

Scott sighed, walking over to Stiles’ bedroom door. He sat down beside it, looking up at Mrs. McCall and Allison. “I’ll just… sit here then.”

*

Inside his lair, Beast thrashed a small end table, snarling, and then picked up a broken picture frame and threw a piece of it across the room. It smashed against the frame of his open bedroom door, and he growled as he stomped over to the marble table where the rose sat.

“What does he want me to do… _beg?_ ” He said the word with disgrace, picking up the magic mirror beside the bell jar. “Show me the boy.”

A sizzle of green lightning and blue sparks flashed across the silver mirror’s surface, and then Beast could see Stiles in his room. He was sitting with his back against the door, knees drawn up to his chest. He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were red, and his shoulders trembled with every deep intake of breath.

Beast closed his eyes, sighing. He set the mirror down, turning back to the rose. “He’ll never see me as anything… just a monster.”

A golden spark dusted off the rose, and then a petal fell.  It turned from red to withered and black upon the table’s marble surface. The castle creaked, groaning and aching as another bit of stone broke off and fell into dark shadows, somewhere far from Beast. He leaned heavily against the table and pressed his face into one massive paw, curling protectively over the bell jar.

“It’s hopeless…”

**

Maybe an hour had passed, Stiles couldn’t really tell. The only indication was that it was even darker outside than before and that his butt had fallen asleep from sitting on the hard floor.

There was a tiny, very small, timid knock at Stiles’ door.

He lifted his head off his knees, rubbing his hands against his cheeks on reflex, though he hadn’t actually cried. “What now? Somebody else here to yell at me?”

There was a sad sputtering, and then, “Ah, no _monsieur…_ It’s Scott. I was wondering if you were hungry.”

Stiles blinked, and he turned over and got on his knees, cracking the door open.

Scott the candelabra was there, quietly rubbing the flames of his two arm sconces together, and he looked up at Stiles when the door opened enough.

“…I thought I had to starve,” Stiles muttered.

Scott shook his head, sighing. “The Master, he says some things sometimes… He gets angry very easily.”

“They have therapy for that, I think.”

Laughing, Scott gestured to the hallway. “Well, there’s food if you are hungry. I’d like to apologize for him.”

“You don’t have to do that. He’s the one who should apologize,” Stiles grumbled, and Scott stepped back as Stiles got to his feet, smoothing off his wrinkled trousers and straightening his vest.

“We would be here for a very long time if we waited for that,” Scott said, and Stiles laughed despite himself as he was lead down the hall to the grand staircase.

There was a melody coming from deeper in the castle, the plinking notes of a harpsichord. “Somebody else here… has fingers?”

Scott laughed. “That’s Boyd. He’s a harpsichord. Literally—that’s what he is now. Very talented player; a man of very few words. I’ll introduce you some time.”

“That would be nice, yeah. I’d like to meet everyone! How old are you, anyway?” Stiles asked, and Scott laughed.

“I don’t really remember. We haven’t aged in a few years,” he replied.

“Huh, well that’s pretty neat,” Stiles said, following Scott down the stairs.

“May I ask, how old are _you_ , Stiles?”

“Seventeen.”

Scott nodded. “That is a good age. The Master, he is just few years older than you!”

Snorting, Stiles said, “Like two or three?”

“Six at most.”

“And here I thought he was a grouchy old man,” Stiles said, and Scott laughed despite trying not to.

The walk to the dining hall was filled with amiable chatter, and when they got to the kitchens, Stiles could hear Jackson arguing with Mrs. McCall.

“Well, I think he was being stubborn. Even for a peasant! After all, Master did say please,” Jackson said, and Stiles pursed his lips, looking down at Scott.

“He’s always been that way.”

Mrs. McCall replied with, “But if the Master can’t learn to control his temper, he’ll never break the—“

Scott shoved the doors wide open, sliding across the tiled floor. “Aha! Look who I brought!”

Stiles stood in the doorway, tucking one foot behind the other ankle, waving sheepishly.

Jackson rolled his eyes with a huff.

“Hello, dear,” Mrs. McCall said delightedly, and Isaac pushed open a cupboard door and leaned out.

“Stiles is up?” He called excitedly.

“Now you, get back to bed, Isaac,” Mrs. McCall said sternly, to which the teacup groaned, pulling the cabinet door shut with his handle. “You look awfully pale, love,” Mrs. McCall said to Stiles, and he looked down at his bare arms, running a hand over one.

“I’m just… pale always.”

Scott nodded, as if he knew for a fact.

“Oh, I apologize. I mean pale like peckish. Hungry?”

“Oh my gosh, I’m _so_ hungry,” Stiles said, breaking down. “I just didn’t want to tell him that,” he grumbled, looking up at the ceiling, indicating Beast.

The servants all muttered awkwardly, and then Scott gestured to Stiles. “Alright then, we’ll get some food in you!”

“What? No, we aren’t going to feed him! The Master said—“Jackson started.

Mrs. McCall gasped at him. “The Master can say what he likes, I’m not going to let the poor child go hungry.”

“Fine! Glass of water, crust of bread, and then—“

“Jackson!” Scott hissed. “I’m surprised at you. He’s our guest!”

“He’s a prisoner!”

“Ignore them, love. Right this way,” Mrs. McCall said, tea tray rolling through the kitchen.

“Ehm, thank you,” Stiles said awkwardly, and he let Mrs. McCall lead him into the dining hall.

Jackson turned to Scott and swatted him with his hand. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but it’s still a stupid idea.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“He’s a _boy_ , Scott. And a _peasant._ ”

“The rules of the spell say _if he can learn to love another and earn_ their _love in return._ Theirs! See? _Theirs,_ not hers or his or its. What have you,” Scott said, holding a candle flame to Jackson’s face.

“It’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” Scott huffed, and he hopped onto the stove and gave a few quick orders.

“Well, if you’re going to have to feed him, keep it down. If the Master hears us it’ll be our necks,” Jackson snapped, and Scott laughed.

“Well, it’ll be _your_ neck. I’ll make sure of that,” he replied.

“He’s not the one, Scott!”

“A broken clock is right two times a day, _mon ami_ , but this is not one of those times. Besides! What is dinner without a little music?” As Scott said that, he hopped onto another tea cart and rode it through the swinging doors to the dining room.

Jackson shrieked, “Music?!” and then slipped on a damp stop on the kitchen floor, a few springs and cogs popping from his seams.

Scott slid across the polished wood surface of the table, Allison flying up to the corner of the room with a silver dish. She tilted it and it shone a spotlight on Scott’s figure. Stiles was sitting at the head of the long table, and he covered his mouth to hide his enthusiastic smile.

“ _Ma chere, monsieur_ Stiles. It is with deepest pride and greatest pleasure that we welcome you tonight. So, we invite you to relax, let us pull up a chair, as the dining room proudly presents—“

Behind Scott, an array of dishes rolled out along the table, and one skid to a halt in front of Stiles, gleaming with gold along the edges, polished to a shine.

“Your dinner!” Scott said, and then he scampered out of the spotlight and to the edge of the table, waving Stiles to lean closer.

“I’m going to sing for you now,” Scott whispered in a conspiratory fashion, grinning.

Stiles leaned in closer, grinning back. “…Okay.”

**

Stiles had confetti in his hair and there were sparks still sizzling in the air from the fireworks, all of the dishes and silverware bowing, Scott applauding himself as Jackson finally climbed atop the table.

“That was… the _single_ most awesome thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life, and I will never be able to eat ever again without that song playing in my head,” Stiles said, and he picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth. His plate was a mess of colors, the small cake sitting in front of him holding a single tiny candle. “Can I eat this now?”

“Well, of course!” Scott said, and he sat down and caught his breath.

Stiles finished the cake as Jackson finished his haughtily whispered scolding, and when the dishes were all whisked away, Stiles put his elbows on the table. “So… Are you guys going to show me around the castle?”

“That’s _absolutely_ out of the question,” Jackson said, waving his hands.

“But you probably know everything there _is_ to know about the castle,” Stiles said, and Jackson paused, turning to look at Stiles, who was smiling politely. “Please?”

Jackson spluttered, and then cleared his throat. “Well, obviously… Yes, I do.”

*

Jackson did, indeed, know _everything_ about the castle, even the small details Stiles didn’t really want to know but listened to simply because it seemed to please Jackson that he was spewing all this knowledge and somebody was listening. Scott was listening too, of course, and Frou Frou, who had come along yapping at Stiles’ ankles.

“As you can see, the pseudo facade was stripped away to reveal a minimalist rococo design. Note the unusual inverted vaulted ceilings,” Jackson said, and Stiles looked at Scott.

Scott mimicked slicing his own throat, and Stiles snorted indignantly to stifle a laugh. They walked down a long hallway adorned with suits of armor, none of them looking like the designs Stiles was familiar with, the styles warped the way the gargoyles in the other hall had been. As they walked, the heads turned to follow Stiles off.

“This is yet another example of the neo-classic baroque period. And as I always say, if it's not baroque, don't fix it!  Ha ha ha,” Jackson shook his head, then cleared his throat. “Now then, where was I?” He turned to the suits of armor and snapped, “As you were!”

Their heads twisted back, looking forward.

“Well, that was a great tour. But I feel like you left some things out,” Stiles said as they came back to the grand staircase, where Mrs. McCall rolled out on her tea cart, pouring a cup of tea into a teacup that wasn’t Isaac.

“Well, tomorrow perhaps! There’s the gardens, the ballroom, the library,” Scott said.

Stiles’ eyes lit up. “You have a library?” He exclaimed, to which Scott laughed excitedly.

“Yes, we do! It’s the Master’s favorite part of the castle!”

Stiles frowned. “…Sourwolf likes the library, huh?”

Jackson elbowed Scott in the neck, and the candlestick whined.

“Well, either way, thank you. All of you. This was my first night in an enchanted castle,” Stiles sighed wistfully, and Jackson laughed awkwardly, nervously.

“Enchanted? Who said anything about the castle being enchanted?” He sighed, still laughing, and then grabbed Scott and shook him. “It was you, wasn’t it, you—“

“Well, I kinda figured it out for myself,” Stiles said, and he gently pulled Scott and Jackson apart. They glared at one another, and then huffed.

“Now now, love. You boys, off with you. And you, drink this,” Mrs. McCall said, and Stiles took the cup and drank.

“It tastes minty. Nice,” he said, sighing as he finished the tea off. “I don’t know why you’re all being so nice to me… But thank you.”

“Kindness is kindness in return, Stiles. You get on off to bed, won’t you?”

“Yeah. Thank you, again.” Stiles began to ascend the stairs, and he paused at the top, looking towards the West Wing.

“To _bed_ , Stiles,” Mrs. McCall said, and Stiles turned and hurried up the stairs to the East Wing.

Sighing, Mrs. McCall’s tea cart rolled back towards the den where Scott and Jackson had retreated to.

A moment later, Stiles ran down the East Wing stairs on quiet feet, across the landing, and to up the West Wing stairs.

Stiles’ swell of mischievous excitement dwindled when he walked down the long corridor, the gargoyles on the ceiling looming, the walls draped in torn velvet and satin. Stiles gasped at motion in his periphery, and he turned sharply to find a mirror hanging on the wall. It had been shattered, a few shards clinging to the frame, reflecting the motion of his body.

Continuing down the hall, Stiles found one more broken mirror before he came to a huge door, the handles shaped like the face of a gargoyle. He took a deep breath, touching the cold handles with steady fingers before he yanked the doors open.

The next hall was quiet, strewn with broken furniture and tattered tapestries. Stiles stepped lightly over pieces of wood and cloth, Stiles entered a large drawing room, a draft flooding the space as he looked around at the dark walls and dusty chandelier.

Turning, Stiles found a large picture hanging on a wall beside a closed door, the frame gilt and dusty.

Stiles halted, looking up at the portrait. It was slashed to pieces, canvas torn by what looked like eight claws… Two hands. There was a tatter of black hair, then a bit of golden skin, and Stiles could see a sliver of green eye, a high white collar beneath a dark gray coat with fine silver clasps.

He reached out, delicately pinching one shred of canvas cloth between his fingers, lifting it. A spark of light caught Stiles’ eye, just out of sight as a gust of wind tugged on a curtain, and he turned quickly to find the source.

The long room ended in two great doors, both open to a balcony and a shelled bit of roof. A marble table sat just inside the safety of the room’s edge, the floor beneath it dusted in snow like the half-circle balcony.

Stiles’ lips parted, and he walked over, mesmerized. A rose, reddest he’d ever seen, floated beneath a crystal bell jar atop the table, a bed of black petals beneath it, soft gold sparks dripping off the petals as if a fire burned in the rose’s heart.

Stopping just before the table, Stiles pressed his fingers to the edge of the marble and leaned in closer, watching the flower sparkle and glow. He had never seen something so beautiful or miraculous in his life, and he reached up and raked his fingers through his hair. Standing up a bit straighter, Stiles touched his fingers to the icy carvings in the crystal, running his fingertips over the deep grooves.

A shadow fell over him, a hand on his shoulder, and Stiles stumbled back as he was pulled back from the bell jar and the rose, staggering into one of the torn curtains hanging on a cracked pillar.

“ _What are you doing?!_ ”

“N-nothing!” Stiles exclaimed, watching as Beast put himself between Stiles and the bell jar.

“What did you do to it?!” Beast snarled, ears lying flat against his head as he touched both paws to the crystal, breathing heavy as if in a panic.

“Nothing,” Stiles said again, and Beast turned to him and snarled.

“Why did you come here? Do you realize what you could have _done?!_ ” Beast spun and grabbed an already broken stool off the floor, throwing it at the far wall where it shattered to splinters. Stiles felt glued to the wall, watching as Beast smashed an end table, snarling, tail swishing violently. “Get out!” Beast snarled, and he turned on Stiles and bared his teeth. “GET OUT!”

Stiles scrambled off the wall, the curtain tearing off the stone as he stumbled, tripping over his own feet. He broke through the doors of the West Wing, the Beast’s roar behind him startling him into tripping over his own ankles as he ran down the stairs.

Beast looked back at the rose, eyes widening as his ears pricked up. A heavy exhale escaped him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face into his paw as he slouched over the glass dome.

Stiles stumbled across the second floor landing, looking back over his shoulder at the West Wing stairs for just a moment.

“ _Monsieur,_ where are you going?” Scott said, and he was hopping down the stairs of the East Wing as fast as he could, Jackson close behind him.

“He told me to get out!” Stiles snapped, and he ran across the foyer and snatched his cloak off of the coatrack. “I’m getting out!”

“No, wait! Please, wait!” Mrs. McCall said suddenly, hopping out of the hallway that led to the kitchens.

Stiles pulled the front door open, snow and wind gusting across the floor. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, and slammed the door shut behind him, the force extinguishing Scott’s flames.

Roscoe was still saddled, and Stiles climbed onto his back and kicked his sides, hands shaking as Roscoe charged forward, tearing through the tall hedges and out through the wrought iron gate.

The forest was dark and cold, and the snow was still falling as Stiles pressed his face to Roscoe’s neck and let him follow the trail.

A howl echoed off the trees, and Stiles’ head snapped up as Roscoe nickered. On a higher ridge, Stiles could see a couple wolves running through the trees, following the path after him. He whipped around at the sound of a snarl, three more wolves running just behind Roscoe.

“Oh my—“Stiles was cut off when one of the wolves on the ridge leapt down, teeth snagging in Stiles’ cloak. Its heavy body tore him from Roscoe’s back, and Stiles slid across a stretch of completely frozen ground, panting.

Roscoe stumbled across the ice, rearing and bucking as the wolves snapped at him. He threw his head back, neighing, kicking. Stiles scrambled over to the snowy embankment beside the frozen earth, picking up a large, broken branch.

When he reared again, Roscoe’s reins caught in the gnarled branch of a low-hanging tree, and Stiles backed up against him, swinging the stick at another wolf. It snapped at him, and when it lunged Roscoe spun and kicked it in the face, stomping his hooves at another as the ice skid under him.

A wolf snapped Stiles’ cloak in its jaws, and when Stiles hit it over the face with the stick it snarled and released him, running around to the other side to snap at him again. The largest wolf, the one with the scar, lunged forward, snapping the branch between its jaws when Stiles swung it.

Taken off guard, another wolf bit into Stiles’ cloak, yanking on the fabric, dragging Stiles to the frozen ground.

Shivering, Stiles looked up at the wolves advancing on him, the largest licking its bared teeth, ears folded back. It lunged, and Stiles threw his arms over his head, curling into a pathetic ball.

But then he heard a yelp, and he realized he wasn’t being eaten, and Stiles looked up to find the Beast there, holding the wolf up in the air by its scruff like a wet kitten. His long, black muzzle was open on a roar, his head dwarfing the wolf’s as he bared his teeth in its face.

Beast tossed the wolf into a tree, crouching down onto all fours between the other wolves and Stiles, tail swishing as his ears laid flat against his head.

Two of the wolves lunged, then another, and Stiles scrambled backwards onto his rear, hands sliding across the ice as Roscoe neighed and thrashed behind him.

Beast looked to be losing the fight, snarling and clawing as the wolves bit at his legs, his arms, one of them crawling onto his back, teeth finding purchase in shoulder. Beast snarled, reaching over his shoulder. He grabbed the wolf by the face and threw it. Its body hit a tree with a squeaking yelp, ice and snow dusted off from the force, the tree shaking. Snarling, the Beast snapped his teeth at another wolf, grabbing one and throwing it in another direction, using his massive paw to swat one across the ice.

The wolves all staggered back, snarling at Beast, crouching down with ears flat.

Beast’s ears followed suit, and he dug his claws into the ice, muzzle crinkled as he pulled his lips back in a snarl. Then he roared, and Stiles had to cover his ears from the ferocity of it, the wolves cringing back, whimpering as their tails swished between their legs.

The biggest one was on shaking legs, and it snapped at Beast again, taking a step forward.

Beast answered the challenge with another roar, this one even louder, his hackles raised over the edge of his cloak, and Stiles thought he looked the size of a bear in that moment, horns a strange crown over his dark head.

Whimpering, growling, the wolves all turned and ran back into the forest, save the one that had hit the tree with brutal force.

Huffing, the Beast’s breath fogged the air in front of his face, and he got up off all fours, tail brushing the snow from the icy ground as he turned to Stiles, ears erect and forward.

Stiles gaped up at him, panting, watching as blood dripped from Beast’s forearm, from his calf.

Beast groaned, all ferocity fleeing from his expression, his features softening like a docile hunting dog. Stiles blinked, watching Beast stagger, his big paws slipping on the ice. With a heave and a great whine, Beast toppled over into a drift of snow, face pressed against the embankment, arms limp at his sides.

Stiles slid to his feet, scrambling as he pet Roscoe’s neck, soothing him while he yanked on his reins, the tangled branches snapping like glass in Stiles’ haste. He looped them over Roscoe’s neck and grabbed onto the saddle horn, rising onto his toes to mount…

Stiles froze, his hands no longer shaking, breath slowing as the last few minutes of his life played over again in his head.

There was no reason at all for the Beast to come after him, for the Beast to save him, to fight for him, to protect him…

Stiles felt cold, and he stood flat, hands loosening on Roscoe’s reins. He looked over his shoulder at Beast, breathing deep and ragged in the snow. Stiles’ brows creased, and he found himself feeling numb to the thought of leaving Beast lying there.

The ice creaked under Stiles’ feet when he got close, and he knelt down beside Beast, hand hesitating over his shoulder. His red cloak had been ragged already, but now it was torn over his back, the dark fur of his shoulder shining through the hole. Very gently, Stiles touched the wound.

It was sticky and wet, and it stained Stiles’ fingertips when he flinched back. He took off his own cloak and draped it over Beast’s back, shaking him gently.

There was a growl, too tired to be threatening, and then a green eye opened and looked up at Stiles in Beast’s periphery.

Stiles leaned in closer, rubbing his hand over Beast’s back through his cloak. “You have to help me,” he said, and he turned over his shoulder and gestured to Roscoe, who came over cautiously.

When Stiles looked back at Beast, he had turned his face, looking up at Stiles in disbelief as his long muzzle cracked open, white fangs gleaming. He looked… confused. Scared, even. It made Stiles’ throat feel tight. But he managed to say, “You have to stand.”

Beast closed his eyes, sinking further into the snow as he huffed, and then Stiles could feel him rising under his hand.

It was a cold, long walk back through the forest to get to the castle, and Stiles patted Roscoe’s cheek constantly, looking over his shoulder often at Beast draped over the saddle.

Stiles had no idea what he was doing, but he knew it was the right thing. Wherever his dad was, he’d probably be at least a tiny bit proud.

**

They had been riding for hours through the dark woods when John saw the tree.

“There it is! This is the tree!” He hopped off the small wagon and Peter and Parrish exchanged a look. John frowned, looking up at the tree. “But… It was struck by lightning… and on the ground. And it’s standing now, due to some sort of… Uh,” John knocked his fist against the tree, then looked on either side of it. “But that means if the tree is here, then the way to the castle is…”

Peter pressed the heel of his palm to his eye and Parrish laid a hand over his shoulder. “Is it safe to marry into this family?”

Flicking his hand off, Peter climbed off the wagon and stomped over to John, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around. “John… Stiles is probably at home safe right now, and you’re probably delusional due to fever or typical crackpot madness or what have you. Now… We have been out here for almost nine _hours_ going in circles, the _sun_ is about to come up, and now that we find the supposed tree that you said would lead us in the right direction it’s _standing up_ and there are _no trails_ to be seen!”

Parrish rose up on his knees, hands clutching the back of the front seat. “Peter.”

John shook his head. “Stiles is locked in a dungeon with that _thing_ somewhere in this forest,” he snapped, and then turned his face to cough. “The path has to be somewhere near here.”

Peter shook John sharply. “There is no dungeon! There is no _beast!_ ”

“If you didn’t believe me, why did you come to help me anyway?”

“ _Because I want to marry your son!_ ” Peter yelled, and he was shaking when Parrish hopped out of the cart and ran over to him.

John stepped back, staring at Peter with wide eyes as Parrish pulled him back, turning him and taking his face between his hands.

“Peter, _Peter_ . Calm. Breathe… Go back to the war!” Parrish said, and Peter closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. “Blood. Explosions. _Widows?_ ”

Nodding, Peter cleared his throat. “Widows.”

“That’s it,” Parrish soothed, and Peter looked up at the sky and released a tiny laugh.

Peter turned back to John, smiling awkwardly. “ _John_ … Forgive me, old bean,” he said, and he smoothed John’s coat and righted the collar. “I just… I’m so worried about _Stiles_. But that’s no way to talk to the father of my future husband.”

John looked down at Peter’s hand on his jacket, then back up at his face. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“I’m sorry?” Peter said, still smiling.

“First of all, you would never receive my blessing to marry Stiles. Ever. Secondly, it wouldn’t matter if I _wanted_ to give you my blessing, because Stiles isn’t an idiot. He’s a smart boy, and very independent, and, I’ll say again, _not an idiot_ . He would _never_ marry you.”

Peter was quiet for a moment, not moving, hardly breathing. And then he drew his arm back and punched John with surprising force. He fell to the ground unconscious and Peter sighed, shaking his head. “That’s not the answer I wanted.”

Parrish pushed his shoulder against Peter’s, looking down at John’s unconscious body lying there. “Peter, are you crazy?”

“If John won’t give me his blessing, he’s only in my way. We’ll tie him up, leave him for the wolves. With him gone, Stiles will have no one to take care of him but me,” Peter said, and he went back to the wagon cart and pulled a length of rope out of one of the compartments.

He handed the rope to Parrish, who weighed it in his hands awkwardly as Peter dragged John over to a tree.

“Well?” Peter snapped.

“It just seems… We can’t really leave him like this, can we? He’s sick, and he’ll be helpless,” Parrish said, and Peter grabbed his hands. The contact made him gasp.

“Parrish… Get your ass over here and help me tie him up,” Peter said, gently, and Parrish knew that was the end of the argument.

**

The roar shook the walls, filigree picture frames rattling against stone, a small vase filled with dead flowers hopping off a table, crashing to the floor. Isaac skittered across the den floor, sliding behind his mother.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles looked down at the cuts he was currently tending to. The calf had been mad hell, tail swishing and ears back, and the shoulder was ridiculous growling and whining through gritted fangs. Those were clean and bandaged now. _Now_ the Beast finally caved. Now he finally turned to Stiles, hackles raised, green eyes burning.

“THAT HURTS!” Beast snapped, teeth dangerously close to Stiles face.

Glaring, Stiles pulled the warm cloth back from Beast’s arm and yelled back, “If you’d hold still, it wouldn’t hurt as much!”

With a mean grin, Beast said, “Well if you hadn’t run away, this wouldn’t have happened.” He gestured his long claws at the red gashes along his forearm.

Stiles slapped the cloth back into the steaming basin. Water splashed Scott and Jackson, who spluttered and scuttled back. “If you hadn’t scared me I wouldn’t have run away!”

A low, rumbling growl escaped Beast’s chest, his teeth bared while he thought for a moment. “Well _you_ shouldn’t have been in the West Wing!” His triumphant, stupid smirk irritated Stiles more than anything had ever irritated him before.

“Well _you_ should learn to control your temper!” Stiles wasn’t one for yelling, and it didn’t usually make him feel good, but the way those bushy brows lifted and those ears pricked up indignantly made him feel rather proud.

Jackson made a gesture of agreement, which Scott quickly waved off, eyes flitting between the Beast and Stiles.

Beast huffed, snapping his face away from Stiles with a clack of teeth. His ears laid back again and he rested his jaw on his paw, slouching against the armchair. His fangs dropped down over his bottom lip, and Stiles realized he was pouting. _Pouting_. Stiles had seen a similar look on farmer Louis’ beauceron when she was being trained, denied treats for failing to keep sheep in line.

The fire crackled and Stiles debated whether or not he should go. Huffing, Stiles reached back into the basin and wrung the cloth out. “Can I finish now?”

Beast grumbled, one ear twitching beneath a long horn.

Stiles sighed. His hands were pink from the heat of the water and his shoulder stung where he’d hit the ground falling off of Roscoe, his entire _side_ aching from being _torn_ off his horse by a _wolf_ . But he could do this. He _should_ do this, as a decent person. Which he was.

He hesitated, just before the deep wounds, and then dabbed the cloth over them, more gently this time.

There was a deep inhale in the armchair, and Stiles watched the Beast’s paw clench, long fingers clawing at the upholstery. “Sorry…” He murmured, shoulders hunching as he continued to tend the wound in silence.

Beast’s ears pricked up slightly, and he looked back at Stiles in his periphery. Stiles could feel that gaze, no less angry but much less bitter, on his face.

Stiles wet his lips with his tongue, nearly done cleaning the ridges of red, tender flesh between tufts of black fur. “You’re being quiet all of a sudden, Sourwolf,” he said, the corner of his mouth tilting up slightly.

Scott made a squeaking sound, and then Stiles had that muzzle in his face again, the roar deafening him for a moment.

“THAT’S NOT MY NAME!” Beast snarled, and Stiles threw the cloth into the basin and splashed Scott and Jackson for a second time.

“Well, _I’m_ not going to run around calling you _Master_ or _your grace_ or _any of that_ . I’m a _prisoner_ , not a _servant_ , so if you have a _real_ name, I’ll take it now!” Stiles snapped, brows pinched tight, Beast’s breath gusting hot and damp across his jaw. It probably wasn’t wise to put one’s face so close to something that looked like a feral wolf, but Stiles never said he was wise. And now that he had actually seen a wolf in person, Stiles knew exactly what one looked like when it bared its teeth at you.

Beast’s brows scrunched together, a ridge of wrinkles riding up over his nose like a dog that had tasted something bad. “Of _course_ I have a name, you idiot!”

“ _You’re_ the idiot! I should have left you in the snow!”

“Yes, you _should_ have!” Beast snapped, and Stiles flinched back by the sincere rage in his voice.

It was like back in the West Wing, but… Less terrified. This was just angry. This was anger Stiles couldn’t understand, because he didn’t think he had ever been that angry before. He looked down, picking up the gauzy bandages and unrolling a length.

Beast was either glaring at him or through him, but Stiles couldn’t tell. His eyes were stinging with the beginnings of tears, and he didn’t even know why. Maybe it was because he hated being yelled at. Maybe it was because his hands tingled from the hot water and it was hard to get the bandage to wrap around Beast’s forearm without him lifting it to help.

Maybe it was because he felt bad for making Beast _that angry_.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I said that. I didn’t mean it. I wouldn’t have left you out there; I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that, I don’t know why I even said that. You don’t deserve that… I’m sorry.” Stiles sighed, tucking the bandage into place before securing it with a small clasp. He could hear the Beast’s breathing, steadier than before, slower.

Beast cleared his throat, a rough sound that might have startled Stiles under different circumstances. But he felt strangely calm in the quiet that followed the gravelly noise.

“Derek.”

Stiles _did_ startle, then. He almost wasn’t sure the low growl was directed at him. It sounded tired, weak in a way that implied it took great effort, and Stiles looked up at Beast to find those green eyes on his face again. Beast cleared his throat once more, this time looking away from Stiles when he said, “My name is Derek.”

Stiles blinked, and he realized his mouth had fallen open and he was quite plainly staring at his growly companion. Shaking himself out of it, Stiles said, “Well… It’s a bit late for introductions I guess, but it’s…”

The Beast— _Derek_ —looked at him again, lips parting slightly, fangs peeking out.

Stiles smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, Derek. I’m Stiles.”

**

Stiles felt a bit odd, sitting in Derek’s room. It was vast and dusty as the rest of the castle, but there were many windows, and the four post bed was bigger than Stiles’ entire room back home in the village. It was so large that even Derek’s massive figure lying across it looked a bit dwarfed. His bare, furry shoulders slumped against a pile of pillows, his horns carefully laid in the gap between one decorative pillow and another. His paws and tail hung off the edge, and Stiles was tempted to tuck them back under the heavy red duvets before Danny tended to it.

The room was through the doorway Stiles had seen before in the lair, and it made sense that Derek would sleep so close to the rose by the balcony, which Scott had explained was what held their enchantment together.

“He’s not usually a heavy sleeper,” Mrs. McCall said from the foot of the bed where the servants had gathered. “He must be very, very tired.”

“Well, he did fight off a pack of wolves,” Jackson said, then more quietly, “all by himself. Like an idiot.”

“Oh, Master, he did not mean that,” Scott said, and Jackson turned back towards the bed so quickly a few cogs and gears sprang free of his open glass panel. Scott and Isaac laughed, and then Isaac hopped over to Stiles’ feet.

“Lucky it was you. Any of us, he might have let the wolves win,” Isaac said warmly, as if it were a compliment that Derek saved Stiles’ life…

Which he had. He had saved Stiles’ life, after he’d yelled and Stiles, told him to get out.

“Yes, thank you for bringing him home, _monsieur_. We didn’t say so before, but,” Scott started, rubbing at the back of his head with the edge of a sconce.

Jackson huffed. “We’re very grateful.”

“That’s right, darling,” Mrs. McCall said. “That was a brave thing, coming back for his sake.”

Stiles looked at Derek’s sleeping face for a minute longer. There was something almost peaceful there, hidden in that fuzzy face. He sat forward, gently combing his fingers through the thick black fur of Derek’s mane. It was soft, though slightly tangled, and when Stiles realized he was basically _petting_ Derek he got up with a huff.

“I don’t get it. You guys are so nice to him, and he… He obviously got you cursed somehow. You didn’t do anything,” Stiles said, feeling indignant. He was being thanked by these lovely trinkets—people?—for bringing back their very unreasonable, borderline cruel master.

Mrs. McCall sighed, looking up at Stiles. “You’re right, love. You see, the Master… When his mother and sisters, they… When he was left all alone here, the Master wasn’t able to be that sweet, kind little boy anymore. He was all alone, and suddenly he had so much being asked of him. Did no good that his uncle tried to raise him to be just like him, and then abandoned us not long before… this. We watched that little boy get all twisted up into—well… We did nothing.”

Stiles glanced down at Scott, who was looking to the far side of the room. Stiles followed his gaze, understanding dawning on him when he saw the painting hanging there. The family was regal in a way Stiles only imagined people could be in stories. There was a man with dark hair and stern features, terribly handsome by standards, and a woman with flowers in her long hair, her eyes bright and kind. Two girls, one just younger than Stiles, he was sure, and another much smaller, both so beautiful in their pale colored gowns.

And then there was a boy, but Stiles could only see so much of him. Like the large, beautiful portrait in the room before the rose, this boy’s face had been torn from the canvas with claws, leaving only a bit of dark hair and a polished, pale gray vest.

This was Derek’s family then… And they were gone, for whatever reason.

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, looking back at Derek sleeping in his bed. “Well…” He looked back at the rose, glowing just in the other room, snow gusting across the floor beneath it. “What happens when the last petal falls?”

Scott sighed. “The Master will be all alone, and he’ll be a Beast forever.”

Jackson made a disgusted sound. “And we’ll be antiques.”

Frowning, Stiles uncrossed his arms and knelt down by the others, holding his hand out. Isaac eagerly hopped onto his palm. “I want to help you guys. Even Sourwolf. There has to be a way to break the spell.”

Jackson toddled forward, “Well, there is only one—“

Scott hit him with the end of a candlestick.

“That’s not your responsibility, Stiles. Don’t you worry about us, hon,” Mrs. McCall said sternly, and Stiles felt compelled to end the argument there.

He sighed, setting Isaac down before rising. “I’m really tired. It’s been a long day for everyone, I think. We should all get some rest.” He glanced at Derek again, feeling a weight in his stomach turning. “I’ll check on him first thing in the morning.”

“Good night, _monsieur_ Stiles,” Scott said with a light bow, and the others followed suit in a similar fashion.

Stiles walked back to his room fussing with the buttons of his vest. There had to be a way to break the curse, obviously. Even if the others didn’t want to tell him how. He could figure it out. He could repay their kindness by setting them free. And maybe, if he did that, Derek would set him free, too.

**

The next morning Derek was still sleeping, and Danny had dressed him in a fine white sleep shirt and changed the duvets.

Stiles sat himself on the bed beside Derek, scratching at the stitches of the blankets, and constantly sat up to touch Derek’s forehead. A fever with his wounds would be the worst outcome.

Though Derek was terribly warm, it seemed his natural temperature, and Stiles found himself worrying less and less as he sat beside the vast bed. He decided he couldn't spend all his time sitting at Derek’s side, because that would be… well, he just shouldn't do it.

But Stiles did spend the morning and evening with him, and he took trouble in getting to sleep worrying over Derek.

The next day was spent in the same fashion, and Stiles woke at an embarrassingly late hour to Danny gently nudging him.

The servants had all gone to bed and Stiles had fallen asleep on the edge of Derek’s bed, nestled dangerously close to the sleeping beast.

Stiles laid awake in bed for a good half hour listening to Erica laugh at him when he told her where he had been.

Most of Stiles’ time was spent reciting aloud what he could remember if his favorite books or plays, to fill the quiet with more than Derek’s breath.

Stiles spoke softly to the room and it's unconscious inhabitant, recalling sitting at the fireplace with his father, reading aloud to him the plays John had brought him back from the market. “ _So I, admiring of his qualities. Things base and vile, holding no quantity. Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind._ ”

There was a groan in the bed beside him, and Stiles looked up at Derek rolled onto his back. “ _And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind._ ”

Stiles felt a smile break across his face, and he turned towards Derek, shuffling closer to the edge of the bed. “Awake at last.”

Derek’s brows lifted, and he squinted against the light of the room. “So… how many days?”

“Just two. Don't get excited--Danny tended to your dressing and combing,” Stiles laughed.

“And what have you done? Just sat there muttering Shakespeare to yourself?” Derek grumbled.

Stiles nodded matter-of-factly. “Being read to assists healing, I’ve heard.”

“Indeed. Am I all healed now?”

“Maybe,” Stiles said, and he got up and pushed the blankets down a bit. Derek lifted his arm, and Stiles removed the bandages and began cleaning the cuts. “They look really good. You heal fast.”

Derek huffed.

“So, expensive education then?”

“What?”

“Nobody in my village even knows who Shakespeare is. My dad would bring me plays back from the market. I’m assuming you, here in your big, fancy castle, were taught at a young age to memorize sonnets,” Stiles teased, rubbing salve over the cuts.

Derek sat up a bit and allowed Stiles to tend his shoulder next. “Yes. It was… a very expensive education. But not _that_ expensive,” Derek said, which meant yes, it was _that_ expensive.

Stiles nodded, smiling. “ _Romeo and Juliet_ is my favorite play.”

Derek groaned, and he rolled his eyes so hard he sat back against the headboard just as Stiles finished bandaging his shoulder. Indignantly, Stiles scoffed. “Excuse me?”

Derek’s tongue flicked out across his teeth, like he’d tasted something bad. “Do we suddenly live in a world where _Hamlet_ does not exist?”

“What?”

“Well, it’s just _terrible_ . All that heartache and pining, and,” Derek broke off with a loud _blech_. “There are so many better things to read.”

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest. “Like?”

Derek rolled over, sticking his leg out from under the covers. “I’ll show you when I can walk again,” he said, and Stiles rolled his eyes and tended to the wounds on Derek’s calf.

**

Another day passed, and this time, when Derek woke up in the early morning, he was alone. The room was warm, fire blazing in the hearth, and he yawned loudly, shoving his blankets back. His bandages had been changed already, and Derek’s fur smelled like clean liniment. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and when he put his paws on the cold stone floor, Derek winced. He tried his weight, and though he was sore, he found his leg could support it.

“ _Maître_ , you are up!” Scott’s voice sang, and Derek looked up to find Scott and Jackson sitting upon the table beside the fireplace.

Derek dragged a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders like a cloak, looking around the room expectantly. His ears laid back.

“Oh, he is in the gardens!” Scott said.

Jackson yawned. “Yes, playing with the _puppy_ , as he calls it.”

Derek ignored the fact that his servants knew he was looking for Stiles without him having to say so. He walked into the next room, and he went out onto the balcony without even looking at the rose. It was the first time he had ever gone into that room and not given it a second glance, but he was drawn to the sound of laughter down in the gardens.

Stiles was there, Frou Frou running circles around the boy’s ankles, and Stiles had Isaac balanced on his head, hands up to catch him if necessary. Isaac was giggling loudly.

Derek leaned over the balcony and laid his paw over the bandages on his arm. “He brought me back here…”

“Yes, he has taken very good care of you,” Scott said, helping Jackson up onto the balcony’s stone bannister.

A growl rumbled in Derek’s chest, but it was not a threatening sound. His ears laid back.

Stiles was wearing a deep burgundy cape lined in white fur, which was very flattering against the ochre waistcoat and tall boots Erica had dressed him in. He was flushed from the cold and from laughing, and his eyes were bright cut amber. Derek found himself breathing heavier, his head light. “I… I feel sick.”

“That may be something called affection, Master. Scott would know,” Jackson said with an eye roll.

“Affection?”

“Positive feelings. You know… _affection_ ,” Jackson said slower. “ _Fondness?_ ”

“I barely know him,” Derek groused.

Scott hummed. “You're definitely feeling _something._ It's alright to care for him. In fact, that's the goal!”

Derek’s bottom lip jutted out, and he looked back at Stiles. He still felt sick, and he reached up and scratched his claws against the back of his neck. “I want to do something for him… Get him, g-give him a gift.”

Jackson yawned as Scott scrambled onto the bannister beside him. “Well, there’s the usual. Flowers. Chocolates. Promises you don’t intend to keep.”

“No, _mon ami_. The Master can do better than that!” Scott said boldly, and he laid down over the stone and smiled down at Stiles, who fell onto his butt in the snow and let Frou Frou tackle him while he held Isaac up as a safe distance. Isaac was laughing hysterically, now.

Derek’s ears quirked up, and he found himself smiling. “I can.”

**

It was late that afternoon when Derek took Stiles to a part of the castle he had never been in and stopped them at the end of the long hallway before a set of huge double doors carved with dark horses.

“Stiles…”

“Derek,” Stiles said, laughing.

Derek backed up against the door, fighting down the ruckus kicking and flapping in his stomach. “I have something to show you, but you have to close your eyes.”

Stiles arched a brow.

“It’s a surprise.”

A smile spread across Stiles’ face, and he closed his eyes without being told twice.

Derek’s chest constricted, and it felt like his heart did a little flip-flop at the sight of Stiles standing there, waiting patiently, trusting, his eyelashes long on his pale cheeks. Swallowing, Derek turned and pushed the doors open, then turned back and took Stiles’ hands in his paws.

Stiles’ soft intake of breath was the only sign he was surprised by the contact, and Derek led him forward into the middle of the room. They stopped, and Stiles said, “Can I open them?”

“No, no. Not yet,” Derek said softly, and Stiles nodded, eyes still closed.

The candles burned brighter, illuminating the room, and Derek released Stiles to go and open the curtains on one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, letting in a wash of pale, snowy light.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut tighter, rocking on his feet. “Now can I open them?”

Derek looked up and around the room. It was as good as it could get. “Alright…”

Stiles opened his eyes, and immediately spun in a circle, craning his neck to look up and up at the massive library sprawling out around him. They were in the main chamber, books from ceiling to floor, a second story landing with sliding ladders on the walls in front of him. Another chamber was to the left with more books through a gold-painted gap, and to the right there was another room with several sofas and a fireplace.

Stiles’ smile lit up his face, and he turned to Derek with a glow about him that made Derek feel sick. Again. “It’s wonderful!” Stiles’ voice was so breathless it came out a whisper, and Derek’s ear twitched.

He could hear the hammering of Stiles’ heart behind his ribs, that delight rising in him as well. “You like it then.”

“I’ve never seen so many books in my entire life! I _love_ it,” Stiles gasped, spinning around again.

Derek felt proud, and he stood up straight, reaching behind himself to hold his tail still. “Then it’s yours.”

Stiles barked out a laugh, and then covered his mouth with both hands. “What?”

Derek smiled at him, and Stiles’ hands slid from his mouth, his expression surprised and earnest. Derek said again, “It’s yours.”

Stiles’ brows furrowed, and he turned away from Derek, breathing in deeply before he said, “Thank you…” His voice was soft and shaky, and Derek didn’t know how to feel about that, but what he did feel was a heat behind his ribs and in his face.

“I think you’ll find plenty of books in here that are better to read than _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” Derek teased, and he turned to start leaving.

“Have you read all of these?” Stiles said suddenly, and Derek turned to look at him.

His ears twitched. “What?”

Stiles was looking at him again, arms crossed over his narrow chest. “Have you read all these books,” he said again, smiling.

Derek’s ears laid back. “Well, no…” He looked around the room, frowning. “Some of them are in Greek.”

Stiles’ mouth fell open on a bright smile, and he narrowed his eyes at Derek. “Was that a joke?”

Shrugging, Derek said, “Maybe,” and then turned and left the library. He shook his head as if scolding himself, and his tail tucked against his calf.

Stiles looked around once more, catching his breath and reigning in his excitement as he raked his eyes over too many book spines to count. Then he looked at the door Derek had left through, and he felt winded once again.

**

Living with Derek became something different after that. Stiles would wake in the morning almost excited to see him, and they would have breakfast together in the dining hall, sitting at opposite ends of the long table. Stiles read over breakfast, and he would watch Derek do the same.

Derek’s long muzzle would be dipped into his porridge, lapping loudly at the cream while he read simultaneously.

Stiles would tap his spoon against his mouth to hide his smile, and when Derek caught him looking he would turn back to his book and eat as gracefully as possible.

One afternoon for lunch, Derek watched Stiles eat from across the length of the table. He picked up his bowl and scooted down a seat. Then a few. And then Stiles laughed and pulled out the chair beside him.

“Come here then,” he called, and Derek felt his face heat as he picked up his soup and moved all the way down the table, sitting down beside Stiles, who was eating his soup quietly.

Derek looked down at his soup, licked his chops, and then closed his mouth. “I… I can’t use a spoon,” he said.

“You don’t remember how to hold one?”

“My… my face.”

Stiles smiled, nudging Derek’s bowl. “I’ve never asked you to use a spoon before, have I?”

Derek frowned. “I feel like a dog.”

Feeling bold, Stiles reached out and tugged on Derek’s ear like one night a puppy fussing noisily at nothing.

Derek gawked at him, his brows pinching up with indignation. “Did you…”

“You're not a dog, Derek,” Stiles teased, and then he set his spoon down. He picked up his bowl, looking at Derek as he pressed his lips to the rim and tilted it, slurping his soup gently.

Derek’s big, triangular ears were sticking straight forward, and he looked down at his own bowl, surprised by Stiles once again. He cupped his bowl in his big paws and followed the action, and Stiles laughed when Derek still got soup on his nose.

In the corridor outside the dining hall, Scott was clapping his sconces together. “This is fantastic!”

Jackson was holding his glass panel closed as he watched. “It’s certainly an encouraging development.”

Mrs. McCall shushed them, and turned to Allison who was fussing with her feathers. “I didn’t think Master could ever…”

Nodding, Mrs. McCall watched as Stiles laughed, leaning towards Derek instead of away from him. “It is something, isn’t it?”

Isaac hopped into the dining room just a foot, and then sprang back as the others started to leave. “What is it? What’s going on?”

**

Stiles was brushing Roscoe the next day when Derek came out to the gardens beside the stable to watch. He was looking up at the sky, stealing glances of Stiles that Stiles’ didn’t miss him stealing.

Derek grumbled when Stiles laughed in his general direction. “What?”

“So grumpy. All the time.”

“I’ve been… less grumpy recently,” Derek admitted, turning away.

Stiles’ cheeks burned, and he startled when Roscoe burred at him. “Uh… here. Come pet him,” Stiles said, and Derek’s ears went flat. “Come on, he’s a good horse.”

“He’s too big.”

Stiles gawked at him, but he was still smiling. “You’re like a bear!”

“Well, when I could ride horses, I preferred them to be smaller than seventeen hands.”

Stiles groaned, “Der _ek_.” Huffing, Derek got up, and he went over to Roscoe, who nickered and spooked away from him. “Hey, shh, shh.” Stiles smoothed his hand down Roscoe’s neck, and he looked up at Derek, still too far away. He reached out, finger looping into the pocket of Derek’s coat, and he tugged him closer.

Derek blinked, letting Stiles take his paw and lay it against the horse’s neck, dragging it down to his flank.

“There. See, he’s not a wolf, Roscoe. He’s nice,” Stiles said, and he looked up at Derek and smiled again.

Derek was just looking at him, and Stiles found himself staring back at Derek for far longer than what was polite. He cleared his throat and patted Roscoe’s butt. “You can put him away for me.”

Derek watched him leave for a moment, then looked back at the big draft horse and blew raspberry as him. Roscoe responded in kind by stomping his hoof, burring.

There was something almost sweet about Derek, Stiles thought, and he went up the front steps of the castle and leaned there, watching the big wolf run his paws through Roscoe’s wavy platinum mane. After one got past the grumpiness, and the coarseness, and the complete lack of refinement, Derek was…

Stiles smiled. Derek was terribly unsure of himself, and it was endearing. That’s what it was. Stiles wondered why he didn’t see it there before, and he shook his head and scolded himself.

Ducking down, Stiles scooped up a decent amount of snow and shaped a snowball. When he threw it, it hit Derek’s shoulder and sprayed snow across his furry cheek, and his ears twitched as he barked indignantly like a scared dog.

Stiles laughed, and Derek turned to him and growled, baring his teeth. But that just made Stiles laugh harder, because he had seen Derek actually growl and snap ferociously, and this was just not the same.

Derek bent down beside Roscoe, and when he stood up again he was holding a massive snowball in his big paws.

Stiles stopped laughing, his heart dropping, and Derek threw the snowball with precise aim.

Stiles felt in his soul the exact moment that the knowledge of his mistake dawned on him, and he took the snowball to the face and fell onto his back.

He could hear laughing up on a balcony, Scott’s the loudest, and Derek laughing much closer. The sound warmed something behind Stiles’ ribs, and he kicked his feet against the stone.

“…I did that to myself, I guess,” Stiles muttered, and he cleaned the snow from his face and looked up at the slate gray sky, smiling despite himself.

**

The morning was cold, and John didn’t know how long he had been unconscious when he heard the sound of a dull knife biting through ropes. He opened his eyes, the sun burning on the horizon, stinging his retinas, and he blinked in surprise.

“Lydia?” He started coughing.

She hushed him, finishing off the last of the ropes. “You’re going to be alright, John.”

John gaped up at her, the length of her hair tangled back from her face with a white ribbon, her face smudged with dirt. “Stiles…”

Lydia helped him to his feet, and she was surprisingly strong as she supported his weight and helped him limp through the forest. “He’ll be alright, too,” Lydia said, and John wasn’t sure what she meant.

She took him to her hut, which was really a very large tree with some wooden slats and flaps of fur covering gaps between the root tangles. A stream trickled gently nearby.

John let himself be laid down against a bed of furs over hay, and he drank whatever it was that Lydia had steeped over a small fire for him. “Stiles… he’s…”

Smiling, Lydia laid a cool cloth over John’s head, and then draped a heavy knit blanket over him. “Stiles is safe.”

It was hard to stay awake, but John didn’t feel like coughing his lungs out anymore, so he let himself sag against the makeshift cot and fell asleep, thinking of his son.

**

Many days were spent in the library, finding books and sharing them with one another, reading beside the burning hearth in the den.

Derek found himself besotted with the sound of Stiles’ voice, and he would lay across the floor by the hearth beside Stiles while he read aloud. There was cadence there, and something almost melodious to the way Stiles would string words together with perfect pauses and perfect breaths. And even when he was not reading aloud, Derek would sit near him just to feel his presence, the rise and fall of his breath and the sound his fingers made when they turned pages.

Every now and then Stiles would glance at him, Derek would have sworn, but every time he tried to look back Stiles’ attention would be somewhere else. Sitting close with him during meals was now an everyday thing, and Derek would have to hold his tail still when Stiles would rest his own forearm against Derek’s and leave it there.

Stiles was no longer afraid of Derek’s touch, no longer startled by his presence, and Derek couldn’t ignore it despite his best efforts.

He was growing familiar with Stiles’ company as well, and when they would part ways to go to their separate rooms at night, Derek would pace in arcs around the rose before he would curl in bed, unable to sleep for hours.

It was new and quite simply terrifying, and Derek found himself starving for every second he could get with Stiles.

Derek and Stiles were in the library together, talking animatedly, shoulders bumping.

“Well… Maybe you weren’t completely wrong about this working,” Jackson said, arms crossed over his front.

Scott nodded, smiling. “I mean, I know it will work—Stiles is _the one_. But… I didn’t think they’d come together on their own like this.”

Jackson smiled, a terse, tiny quirk of his mouth. “We’ll wait and see. Just a few days more.”

Scott sighed. “There’s just something there that wasn’t there before.”

Pausing, Jackson blinked. “Did… did you honestly just rhyme our sentences?”

“What? Did I?”

“Yes, you did, idiot.”

Scott laughed, and he patted Jackson on the back, turning to leave. “Well, it sounded like a good thing to say.”

Looking back at Derek and Stiles, Jackson watched as Stiles climbed up one of the ladders, Derek smiling up at him fondly. _Fondness_ , Jackson had said. He snorted elegantly. “There’s something there that wasn’t there before.” He turned to leave, and then muttered, “Stupid candle. That is pretty good.”

**

Stiles laughed, reaching on his toes, fingers barely brushing the back of the book he was aiming for. “I swear, I’m all leg and arm but I can never reach things.”

Derek’s tail swished nervously as he looked up at Stiles at the top of the ladder. His ears laid flat beneath his horns. “You know, I could climb up there and get it.”

“You think the ladder can hold you?”

Derek groaned, “Stiles, please.”

“It was just a joke, Derek. I’m fine,” Stiles said, and he reached just a bit further. “You know, maybe you could move the ladder.”

“Not with you _on_ it!”

“Alright, captain safety, don't make me go down there and pull on your ear,” Stiles grumbled. Derek whimpered then, and Stiles looked down at him sharply. “Did you just _cry?_ ”

“Just come down,” Derek pleaded. “You’re very accident prone.”

“What accidents have I ever had in your presence?”

“Well, the _wolves_ for one.”

Stiles shot him a glare.

“Then the time you papercut your finger on _Hamlet_ , or when you tripped over the rug in the den, or the rug in the east hall, or the rug in the foyer, or when you hit your head on the mantle trying to toss a log into the fire,” Derek said, and Stiles cut him off.

“Those are all things that could happen to anybody!” He caught the corner of the book beneath his fingertip and yanked, slipping it free. Stiles grabbed at it, and he caught the book in his hand and held it up with a cheer. “Ha _ha!_ ”

Stiles’ foot slipped on the ladder rung, and with only one hand on the ladder, he easily tipped backwards and fell with a yelp.

 _“Stiles!_ ” Derek snarled, and Stiles squeaked when he was caught easily in Derek’s arms.

His eyes were squeezed shut, and his heart was in his throat, but Stiles was okay. He just almost fell twenty feet to his death, but now he was cradled in Derek’s arms… cradled… arms…

“Stiles,” Derek huffed, and Stiles looked up at him.

He hadn’t seen Derek this mad in a long time, or this close. He was pressed against Derek’s broad chest, an arm around his shoulders, one curled under his legs. Yes, he was definitely cradled in Derek’s arms.

Stiles looked down, and he gingerly unfolded his arms from around the book. “Got it.”

Derek closed his eyes and groaned, his ears standing back up. “You’re going to kill me,” Derek said, and he breathed heavily, as if he’d been winded. His breath was warm on Stiles’ face.

Feeling guilty, Stiles opened the book, still in Derek’s arms— _cradled_ —and turned to the end of chapter one. He tilted the book in Derek’s direction, smiling sheepishly. “I wanted to read it with you… It’s my favorite.”

Derek’s expression softened, and he sniffed at the book, looking at the illustration. “…That’s where she meets the Prince. Takes her another chapter and a half to figure out it’s him.”

Stiles’ heart flipped, dizzy and warm. “You… You’ve read it…”

“I have a copy in the classics case, but it’s very faded. I didn’t know we had another up there,” Derek said, and then looked up at the shelf where Stiles had plucked the book. “We can still read it together later, though… If it’s your favorite.”

Stiles blinked up at him, and Derek seemed to finally realize he was still holding— _cradling_ —Stiles to his chest. He set Stiles down on his feet gently, and Stiles righted himself, brushing his fingers through his hair.

Derek huffed, smoothing down his shirt. “Well… Shall we?”

“What’s your favorite book?”

Derek laughed uncomfortably, and he said, “Maybe we can read that later.”

Stiles followed him into the den, but oh, how his legs still shook and his body was still flushed from being so close to Derek, feeling so small and fragile… and safe.

That was certainly a surprise, one that distracted Stiles for the remainder of the evening. He felt honestly, truly safe with Derek. And that definitely wasn’t supposed to happen at all.

**

The next morning, Stiles and Derek ate breakfast together and went into the den, each reading separately in companionable silence beside the hearth.

Derek had been staring off into the fire, green eyes sparkling, black fur almost chocolate brown in the flame light.

Stiles looked up at him, closing his book over his knee. “Derek?”

Looking down at his own book, Derek blinked, his ears slowly laying back. “I was just… thinking.”

Stiles reached over the space between them, touching the back of Derek’s paw. Derek looked up at him, brows lifting slightly from his troubled, pinched expression. “About what?”

Derek was quiet, and the fire popped and crackled in the stone hearth. “My family.”

A smile touched Stiles’ lips. “Your family?”

“Yes… well, not exactly my family.” Derek looked back at the fireplace. His tail brushed across the floor and laid over his ankles. “...The fire.”

A cold, stabbing sensation pinched behind Stiles’ ribs, and he opened his mouth and found it hard to breathe.

Derek closed his eyes. “My father had been gone for a few years when it happened. He died of pneumonia. But my mother took care of us. I was maybe ten when it happened… a candle was left too close to a curtain, or a spark jumped out of a fireplace onto a carpet. We don’t know for sure.” Derek looked at his paws, fussing with his book cover. “The West Wing has been rebuilt, you see. When I was young I stayed in the East Wing… And my… my mother and sisters, they were… I was the only one not in the West Wing the night…”

“Is that why… now,” Stiles said, but he knew. derek stayed in the West Wing now because he hadn't been with his family during a tragedy. Stiles took Derek’s paw and squeezed, shaking his head. “That’s not your fault, Derek. Don’t…”

Derek nodded. “I know… but I would trade my life for theirs if I could.”

A small, sad smile tugged at Stiles’ mouth. “...I’d be very sad if you weren’t here, you know.”

Derek’s ears pricked up at that, a sharp intake of breath the only sound between them for a moment. Then Derek frowned, glaring down at where his and Stiles’ hands touched. “My uncle… He was away when it happened. When he came back, he thought I needed guidance. I didn’t realize he was turning me into a spoiled brat like him. I can’t stand it...”

“You’re not a spoiled brat, Sourwolf,” Stiles said, and Derek groaned at the name. “You sometimes act spoiled, and you sometimes act like a brat. But… there’s lots of good here.” Stiles scooted forward, and he touched Derek’s chest with his fingertips. “There’s lots of good things in here.”

At that, Derek finally smiled, slow and bright, and he looked away from Stiles even though Stiles could not see him blushing.

Laughing, Stiles said, “Lately you’ve shown some real promise, anyhow.”

“Oh, thanks,” Derek replied dryly, and Stiles laughed harder. That laugh made Derek’s chest hurt, and he tried to swallow against the sudden dryness of his mouth. “It’s just… I find myself the happiest I’ve been since I lost them. And it’s thanks to you.”

Stiles flushed, looking into the fire in the same thoughtful way Derek had. “That… thank you, Derek.”

Derek cleared his throat, turning his face from the fire back to Stiles. “...Let’s take a walk.”

*

“I never asked you earlier what you’ve been reading,” Stiles said as they walked, and Derek tucked the book behind his back. His tail tucked against his calves. Stiles closed his own book and pressed it against his lap, looking up at Derek. “Well?”

With a grumble, Derek pulled the book back out and flipped back to his current page. “It’s nothing, really.”

Eyeing the book briefly, Stiles nodded. “Guinevere and Lancelot.”

Derek put his muzzle up. “It’s King Arthur, actually. You know, knights and men and… swords.”

Stiles grinned up at him. “It’s a romance.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s a romance. Unlike _Romeo and Juliet._ ”

“Still?” Stiles said incredulously.

“It’s not _romantic_ , Stiles. You know, seven people die because of an underage relationship that lasted all of three days. A handful of hours if you count the time they actually spent together!”

“I think six people actually die,” Stiles said, and Derek groaned. “But it’s not romantic because they’re really in love, I guess. It’s romantic that the notion of love gave them the kind of passion they had to fight for each other.”

One of Derek’s ears pricked to the side.

“So they died. Big deal. Everybody does at some point. And yeah, they died of a huge miscommunicated error. But for just a minute, they had the kind of love that makes people believe in love. And they died for that love, for each other, and nothing else.” Stiles looked down at his feet, and Derek realized they had stopped walking. “It’s… really overdone, and super unbelievable. But it’s romantic in its own way.”

Derek’s ears laid flat against his head. “Still stupid.”

Stiles laughed, his cheeks burning. “Okay, Sourwolf. Okay.”

Their walk took them over the bridge, where Derek stopped, heaving a mighty sigh as he looked out over the frozen pond and the white trees, everything gone quiet in the sunlit, glassy gardens. “I… feel like I’m seeing it again for the first time.”

Stiles stopped beside him, leaning on the rail of the bridge, hugging his cloak tighter around himself.

Derek followed the action, tugging the thick, black fabric across his shoulders, resting his elbows on the stone rail. The quiet was broken by the whistling and chirping of a robin somewhere across the gardens, and the sound of the servants having their ‘lunch’ in the courtyard behind them.

It took Derek a moment to realize he had turned his face away from the sprawling estate and was instead watching Stiles with rapt attention. He studied the curve of his jaw and the upturn of his nose, the fans of his lashes. When Derek found himself staring at the shape of Stiles’ lips, he jerked his head back towards the pond. Had Derek not been covered in his fine coat of black fur, Stiles would have surely seen him flush, for his face _burned_ as he looked out over the frozen scene before them.

“…What were you looking at?” Stiles asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up, and when Derek looked back at him, Stiles looked up in turn, arching his brows.

Derek swallowed around the lump in his throat, and he lifted his paw slowly, gently. Stiles didn’t flinch away, didn’t even break eye contact as Derek gently touched his knuckle to the mole on Stiles’ jaw, dragging the smooth fur down to the next dark spot.

Stiles’ mouth dropped open, and his cheeks warmed, a flattering shade of rose on his ivory skin.

“…These,” Derek said, and his throat was so dry his voice sounded like a growl.

But Stiles didn’t appear scared. “Oh.”

“They’re lovely.”

“Oh.” Stiles said again, and then he cleared his throat and ducked his head. His cheeks burned darker. “Thank you.”

“I don’t have freckles, or beauty marks,” Derek said, and he looked down at his paws, folding them back over the rail of the bridge. “I didn’t play outside much as a child…”

Stiles was quiet, and then Derek saw him fussing with his sleeve, rolling it up over his arm to his elbow. “I don’t know about the ones on my back, but my dad says these ones look like the little dipper,” Stiles explained, and he ran his fingers over a smattering of moles and freckles that, indeed, looked like a constellation in his skin.

Feeling emboldened by Stiles’ offer, Derek touched one mark with the pad of a finger, and then another, his claw barely brushing Stiles’ skin. “What does he say about your back?”

“That I have Cygnus, and Leo. And on one leg I have Aquarius. Oh, and here.” Stiles turned and tapped a mole on his neck, then one on his cheek. “Cassiopeia. The little zigzag here?”

Derek make a chuffing sound, one Stiles had only heard twice, and Stiles closed his eyes when Derek moved his face closer, muzzle sniffing at the marks, breath hot.

“I see it…”

Stiles smiled, and when he looked up, Derek was watching his face carefully, as if searching for something that used to be there, or maybe something new. Stiles turned his head and looked back at the frozen pond, and Derek’s head followed, ears erect and forward. When he exhaled, Stiles’ heart fluttered.

“Derek, I… I never thanked you for saving my life,” Stiles said, his voice trembling. “Thank you.” He looked up at Derek, his expression earnest. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Derek’s brows lifted, and his ears laid down the slightest bit. “Well… _I_ never thanked _you_ for not leaving me to be eaten by wolves,” Derek offered, and Stiles laughed despite himself. “So, thank you for that. You certainly didn’t have to bring me back here.”

“Well… It just seemed like the right thing to do. I had to save you.”

Nodding, Derek looked up at the sky, a small group of starlings fluttering past the mottled gray clouds. “My thoughts exactly.”

**

The commotion back in the courtyard grew in volume as they neared, and Stiles could hear Isaac and Scott laughing, Jackson yelling something about losing an eye.

“They sure know how to have fun,” Stiles said, and Derek looked in the same direction and nodded. “Nobody in my village would ever have a snowball fight, I don’t think. Not even the kids.” Stiles looked up at Derek. “They call me a funny boy… And I don’t think they mean it as a compliment.”

Derek grumbled lowly, as if he had been personally offended. “Your village sounds awful.”

Laughing, Stiles looked out at the frozen gardens, fingers fluttering anxiously over his book. “I just… I’ve never really fit… _anywhere_.”

A solemn nod was the only reply Derek had for a moment, and then he looked up, lips parting slightly. “What do you say we run away?”

*

They went back to the library, Derek dropping his cloak across the back of a chair. Stiles reached for the clasp of his own cape and Derek stopped him. “You may need it… depending.”

Stiles arched a brow curiously at him.

Derek opened a glass case, and Stiles watched him handle the book with care. It was large, even in Derek’s paws, and closed with golden clasps, the cover shining and glittering gold. “This was another gift from the Enchantress… The mirror was meant to be a window. This is a door.”

Stiles watched Derek set the book down upon the gold book stand, flipping it open to the very center pages. Inside, several paintings of the globe stretched out, sand twisting through the pages, warm, muted light glowing out through the oceans. “Derek, this is… It’s beautiful.”

“It was a cruel trick,” Derek said stiffly. “It can take you anywhere… anywhere you want to go. But looking the way I do, there’s obviously nowhere I can go but here. The outside world has no place for a beast like me. But it can for you.” Derek took Stiles’ hand and laid it over the middle of the book, spreading his fingers over the pages.

“I wouldn’t go anywhere without you…” Stiles looked up at him, and Derek’s ears laid back. Stiles raised his brows, and Derek nodded.

“Alright… Just for a minute then.” He sighed, leaving his paw over Stiles’ hand. “Now think of the one place you’ve always wanted to go. See it in your mind, and feel it in your heart.”

Stiles closed his eyes, and he felt only the warmth of Derek’s paw and the cold of the book’s pages above and beneath his hand.

“Now reach for it…”

Stiles bit his lip, and he reached.

**

The room was small and dark, evening with a thin moon rising on the horizon.

Stiles’ eyes were already stinging with tears, and he looked around the room, from the circular floor to the bed nooks in the walls to the sloped, vaulted ceiling.

Derek’s tail swept through a layer of dust on the floor, and he looked around the room, and then at Stiles. “Where did you take us?”

“…Paris,” Stiles said, and his hands were shaking.

Derek’s ears tipped forward. “Oh, I love Paris,” he said, and he went over to the window and looked out at the city shining far down the hill. Outside, there were a handful of other windmills, each one as broken down and dark as the one they were in. “Do you want to see anything in particular? Notre Dame? The Seine? No? Too touristy?”

Stiles stepped backwards, running his fingers over a dusty table scattered with small gears and papers of unfinished sketches. He took a shaky breath, blinking tears out of his eyes when he saw the bassinet on the floor beside the small fireplace.

“…I thought it would be bigger.” Stiles lifted his hands, raking shaky fingers through his hair, covering his mouth as he tried to inhale. He found himself unable, and the trembling of his hands increased as he sucked in a hiccuping breath.

Derek’s shadow dwarfed the window a moment later, and his warm paws were on Stiles’ shoulders. “Stiles? Breathe. It’s alright, breathe with me, please.”

Stiles pressed his forehead to Derek’s chest, hearing the up-kick of his heartbeat, the deep draw of his steady breathing. “This is where… this is where I was born. This is where my dad… and my mom…”

“Breathe,” Derek said again, and Stiles breathed in through his nose and out his mouth, until his hands stopped shaking and his heart had calmed. When he looked up, Derek’s face was close, his expression pinched up with worry.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, and he lifted a hand and scrubbed his tear-stained cheek.

“You’re alright…” Derek said, and he sighed heavily, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

Stiles shook his head. “That hasn’t happened for a while… Thank you, for not freaking out.”

“Nothing to thank me for.” Derek’s paws smoothed over Stiles’ shoulders. “What happened to your mother?” Derek’s voice was soft, and Stiles looked away.

“I don’t know… My dad could never bring himself to tell me,” Stiles said, and he slipped from Derek’s grasp, gently touching the mattress pushed into the wall nook.

The quiet was broken by the creaking of a floorboard, and Derek’s sudden huff of breath. When Stiles looked over at him, Derek’s muzzle was crinkled, eyes narrowed. He was looking at the floor. “Stiles…”

“What? What is it?”

His ears dropped, tail tucking against his leg, and Derek bent down beside a rocking chair. “It’s a doctor’s mask,” he said, picking the object off the floor, the beak dusty and black.

Stiles stared at it like Derek had produced a knife out of thin air.

Derek sighed. “The plague.”

Shuddering, Stiles wrapped his arms around himself, and he looked around the room again in a new light. Bandages, bottles of medicines, a pile of pillows beside the bassinet, far away from the bed, the dresser drawers left open and half empty in haste. “He took me away… He left her.” Stiles went over to the small cradle and knelt down, touching the soft bed. Something poked at his finger through a silk blanket, and he pulled it back and looked into the crib.

It was a length of gold box chain, a delicate rose charm hanging from it. Stiles picked it up carefully, weighing it, lying the red rosebud over his palm.

“He was an officer… But he wanted to be an artist. He could paint, and he could fix things… music boxes, mostly. He told me… he told me once that my mother didn’t care if he lost his status, as long as they were happy,” Stiles said. He closed his fingers around the necklace and pressed his face to his hand.

“I’m sorry I ever called your father a thief. I’m sorry about everything, Stiles,” Derek said quietly, and he looked out the window.

Stiles heaved a watery sigh, and he looked up at Derek, bringing the necklace to his chest. “Let’s go home.”

Derek turned back to him, ears erect, eyes wide. He felt a flutter in his chest, and then a press that made it hard to breathe, and Derek held his paw out for Stiles, who accepted it with his empty hand.

Home.

**

The morning was surprisingly pale, the clouds thinly stretched across the sky, promising a clear night. Derek was walking past the ballroom when he heard a decidedly ungraceful clatter and thump. His ears twitched towards the sound, and he stepped backwards and looked through the cracked doorway, Allison’s giggle echoing off the walls.

“Stiles, are you alright?” She said, and Derek pushed one of the doors open wider.

“Oh, sure. Just, you know… dust,” Stiles laughed, dusting off his maroon vest. He had his sleeves rolled up, his breeches damp at the knees, and when Derek stepped into the room, he realized everything had been cleaned and polished to a shine. Stiles was by a bucket of soapy water and a knocked over floor candelabra.

There was a tinkling of harpsichord notes, and Stiles turned towards the instrument and huffed. “Was that a laugh, Boyd?” The notes played again.

“I think he’s making fun of you,” Allison said, laughing.

“And here I thought he was nice. Oh! Derek!” Stiles said, and he scrambled to his feet, setting the floor candelabra that had fallen to the ground back up. “I was just—”

“Did you do all of this?” Derek said, looking around at the golden room that had been remarkably untouched so far by the decay of the spell.

Stiles laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, no! No, Allison helped me. And the other feather dusters. Those ones are just magic, right? They don’t talk or have names,” Stiles mused, and Derek laughed.

“Well… it’s amazing in here,” Derek said, spinning in a small circle. “I haven’t seen it look like this since…”

“Derek?” Stiles said, and Derek found himself staring absently into the distance at nothing in particular.

His ears pricked up, and he looked at Stiles, smudged with dust and winded, smiling at him. Derek opened his mouth.

**

Derek was snarling in his bath, Danny dumping a pitcher of water over his head. “Then?” Scott said.

“Then I said… Well, you’re making everything look so beautiful we should have a dance. I didn’t think he’d _actually_ say _yes!_ ” Danny dunked him again, and Derek groaned, rising from the tub with a great slosh of water. His mane and tail dripped puddles across the floor as he stepped out of the tub, snatching the towel from Danny. “What was I _thinking?_ I’m an idiot; I can’t do this.” Derek shook, water spraying everywhere, dousing Scott’s flames and washing over Danny and Jackson.

Jackson nodded in agreement.

Scott waved at him as Danny took the towel back, hastily drying Derek off in a vigorous fashion. “Nonsense, _Maitre!_ Tonight is the night! There will be music, romantic candlelight—provided by myself, obviously. And when the moment is right, you will confess your love!”

Derek turned towards him, his fur sticking out in every direction from the thorough toweling. “When… When will I know?”

Jackson puzzled, clicking his glass panel opened and closed repeatedly in thought. “You’ll feel slightly nauseous.”

Derek turned his face back towards the mirror and let Danny shove him onto the bench before the vanity. “I feel nauseous already.”

Rolling his eyes, Jackson said, “Then it must be time.”

“When the moment is right, you grab Stiles, you look him in the eye, and you confess your love!” Scott said again, giving Derek a no-nonsense glare.

“I… I can… I can—no. No, I can’t,” Derek sighed, slouching. Danny tilted his chin up and back, and then began snipping at his mane.

“You care for him, don’t you?” Scott snapped.

Derek growled and groaned as Danny yanked and combed and cut his fur. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, brows furrowing. “...More than anything.”

“Then you have to tell him that!”

Derek sighed, and Danny pushed his head forward, unrolling a spool of ribbon from the vanity.

“Danny, are you sure that—”Jackson started, and he was quickly hushed by Scott.

“Nonsense, he’s perfect! Oh, you look so, so…” Scott stopped.

Derek looked at himself in the mirror, his mane curled, ribbons tied in pigtails and bows in his scruff. “Stupid.”

Jackson covered his mouth, fighting a smile.

“Uh…” Scott shook his head. “Well, not quite the word I was looking for, but, eh… Danny, perhaps something a little more… off the top?”

Danny nodded, and then began snipping and combing again.

**

Stiles was throwing vests and trousers and coats every which way, emptying Erica completely. “I can’t wear any of this. _Any_ of it,” he choked, and Allison sighed on the bed.

“Stiles, he’ll love whatever you wear.”

“I’ve worn _most_ of these, I just can’t,” Stiles said, and he looked up at Erica, who yawned and shrugged. “There has to be something else.”

“You can check the far closet,” Allison said, “but I think it’s all dresses.”

Stiles groaned, spinning around in his underwear. “I want to look really nice for him… is that weird? That’s alright, right? I mean, it’s a dance… we’re gonna have a dance, in the ballroom. That requires nice clothes.”

“Check. The closet.” Allison said stiffly, gesturing her feathers towards the doors.

Huffing, Stiles went over to the closet, and Frou Frou began nosing at the discarded clothing, pushing it back towards Erica.

Stiles rummaged through the closet, tossing out a pink gown, a green, several shades of blue. “I can’t believe this, I can’t _believe_ this! I ca—”

“You can’t believe this?” Erica offered, and Allison giggled.

“Hey… this one,” Stiles said, and the material swished out of the closet into his arms.

“That one?” Allison said skeptically.

“Erica is a magic wardrobe… She made all of those dresses into vests and coats…” Stiles turned to Erica, holding the dress up.  “Right? You can do this one, can’t you?”

Erica’s eyes caught the bright fabric, the mesh and tulle and glitter upon satin. “Oh… oh, yes, give me that.”

Stiles brought the dress over, and Erica took it in her arms and then tucked it inside, closing the doors. Allison fluttered closer, looking up excitedly as Stiles rocked on his heels, hands shaking.

A cool wing slipped into his hand, and Stiles looked down at Allison smiling up at him. “You’re going to be fine, Stiles.”

He looked back at Erica as she opened the doors, a bright and melodious humming coming from her mouth before she yawned. Stiles smiled at the glowing fabric hanging from the hook. “Yeah… That’s exactly what I was picturing.”

**

Derek was at the top of the western stairs, his hands behind his back, tail swishing anxiously. He was dressed in a navy blue coat with intricate gold brocade—Jackson’s choice, though Derek had no idea where he found it—with a gold waistcoat buttoned beneath his white cravat. His mane had been cut and combed back into a loose ponytail tied with navy ribbon at the nape of his neck,

He waited with a storm in his stomach, ears laid back, head held high.

A light emerged from the eastern stairwell, and then, Stiles was there, and Derek’s ears shot forward and his mouth hung open.

Stiles’ usually unruly hair had been brushed neatly away from his face, and there was something on his cheeks. He stood at the top of the stairs, fussing with the wrist cuff of his coat, and when he looked up at Derek, he halted in his tracks.

He was glowing gold, the light of candles caught in his sunflower-yellow coat, which Erica had made of the embroidered satin. It hugged his slender frame, the fine waistcoat and undershirt cut of white silk, the breeches starched white with golden patterns of roses running from knee to thigh above the elegant boots. Most beautiful of all was the cape that draped off of Stiles’ shoulders, airy tulle stamped with sparkling patterns of glittering roses and embroidered edges.

Derek was gaping, his heart hammering, and when Scott nudged him, Derek cleared his throat and descended the stairs to the landing. He waited there, holding his breath, watching Allison nudge Stiles in the same fashion.

Stiles smiled nervously, and he touched his hand to the bannister and used it to steady himself as he descended the stairs, cape kissing the floor behind him.

He stopped on the landing before Derek, looking up at him with a sparkle in his eyes. And on his cheeks. Derek smiled, reaching out to gently touch Stiles’ jaw.

“Erica,” Stiles said, indicating the fine shimmer of glitter.

Derek nodded, and he looked down from Stiles’ face to his throat. The low cut of his waistcoat and undershirt showed off his collar bones, and the fine gold chain and rose charm that dripped between them. Derek cleared his throat, mentally willing his tail to be still. He held his elbow out for Stiles to take it, and Stiles looped their arms together with a smile.

They went down the stairs together, and for Stiles’ sake, Derek ignored the way he could hear Stiles’ heart beating hard, the flush burning through the glitter on his cheeks.

They crossed the floor, and the doors to the ballroom swung open for them.

A glittering heaven awaited them within the ballroom, the floor polished to such a fine shine that the sparkle of the candles and chandeliers was reflected upon the dark marble. And there were so, so many candles, gleaming like stars spattered across the walls and glowing on the crystal chandeliers, the golden tree branches and arms across the walls and sconces shimmering like sunlight.

One wall of the ballroom was entirely glass set into gold frames, and outside beyond the balcony, the night gleamed just as brilliantly as that of the glowing chamber.

Stiles let Derek whisk him to the center of the ballroom floor as the music started.

There was a gentle keying of a harpsichord, the humming of a violin, and Stiles licked his lips as Derek released him and stepped back. He looked up into Derek’s face, catching his breath as he took the sweep of his cape in one hand and bowed, low and graceful as he could manage.

When Stiles rose, Derek crossed his arm over his waist and bowed in return, looking back up at Stiles with a timid smile, ears falling sideways nervously.

Stiles reached out for him, and Derek swallowed, letting his paws be taken in Stiles’ much smaller hands, and he let himself be pulled forward. Stiles brought one of Derek’s paws to his waist, fingers steady as he pressed Derek’s palm there and held it, looking up at Derek. He released Derek’s paw, trusting Derek to keep it there, and slid his hand up Derek’s chest to his shoulder, fingers playing over the fine embroidery stitched into the navy coat. With his other hand, Stiles lifted Derek’s arm, and turned their palms over.

“I haven’t…” Derek cleared his throat, and Stiles stepped in closer. “I haven’t danced in… since…”

Stiles smiled up at him. He startled when a familiar voice began singing a melody behind them, and Stiles turned to see Mrs. McCall on top of Boyd, smiling at them. Stiles turned back to Derek, the words tingling across his neck.

_Tale as old as time, true as it can be. Barely even friends, then somebody bends unexpectedly._

Derek stepped, and Stiles followed, and he found himself growing rapidly dizzy by the lack of space between them, the luster of crystals and candles sparkling all around them.

_Just a little change. Small to say the least. Both a little scared, neither one prepared. Beauty and the Beast._

Stiles turned out, and they brushed hands, eyes locked as they stepped in a circle together, paws and boots light, cape and tail sweeping the floor. Derek was incredibly graceful, despite his nerves, and Stiles let himself be drawn close and then spun out. Every time Derek brought him close, Stiles’ heart and hands trembled, and every time he wanted it to last.

They danced across the wide ballroom floor, stepping and spinning and gliding across the space. Stiles glanced down at his feet, watching Derek’s paws pad across the shining floor, and then back up at Derek, candlelight and stars caught in the burning green and gold of his eyes.

Derek smiled, and Stiles felt it kick behind his ribs, smiling back.

_Ever just the same. Ever a surprise. Ever as before, ever just as sure as the sun will rise._

Derek dipped his arm around Stiles’ waist, Stiles’ arm instinctively sliding behind Derek’s neck. Derek tugged Stiles close and lifted him with incredible ease off the floor, spinning him.

“Damn,” Stiles whispered, and Derek laughed, bringing their foreheads together as he set Stiles down and spun him out. Derek took Stiles’ hand in his, so small and light, and he pulled Stiles back to him, eyes closing when Stiles’ hands pressed over his chest.

_Tale as old as time, tune as old as song. Bittersweet and strange, finding you can change, learning you were wrong._

Sighing, Stiles closed his eyes, and he let Derek draw him closer. He set his head against Derek’s chest, breathing deeply as he let Derek lead him effortlessly through the waltz. He listened to the beat of Derek’s heart, wild and mighty behind his ribs, and Stiles found himself hugging Derek tighter to him.

Derek’s ears flicked up, and he turned to Scott and Jackson at the doorway, who were silently cheering him on. Derek grinned.

_Certain as the sun rising in the east. Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme, Beauty and the Beast._

The plinking notes of the harpsichord softened, and the violin hummed into a much quieter melody. Stiles looked up at Derek, and he held his breath when Derek stopped. One paw at the small of Stiles’ back, the other on his shoulder, Derek dipped Stiles down, the candles dimming, a more bronzed and blue light washing through the ballroom as Stiles’ head spun. The room tilted, and Stiles wasn’t sure if it was because he was being dipped, warm in Derek’s arms, or because he had suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

Derek lifted him slowly, drawing Stiles so close that his forehead touched Derek’s muzzle, and whether by accident or with intent, Stiles’ exhaled a shuddering breath at the soft touch.

_Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme. Beauty and the Beast._

Derek spun Stiles out one last time at arm’s length, and he watched Stiles bow again, breathless and flushed. Derek brought Stiles’ hand to his muzzle, and he bowed lightly and brushed his lips across the backs of Stiles’ knuckles in a kiss. When he lifted his head again, Stiles’ blush was even darker than before, and he was smiling.

Standing tall, Derek offered his elbow again, and Stiles took it, looking up from where his hand was draped over Derek’s forearm to Derek’s face.

They crossed the ballroom again, and stepped through the wide glass doors onto the balcony. Outside, the air was cold and soft, the sky sparkling, the gardens washed in silver and diamond. The clouds had dissipated enough for actual moonlight and starlight, and the snow glittered with radiance beneath the wash of the moon and the twinkle of the heavens.

Derek rested his elbows on the balcony rail, the cool breeze rustling his fur as he looked out at the gardens sprawling towards the forest’s edge. His ears laid back, and he looked down at Stiles beside him.

“I’ve never,” Derek said, breathless, and Stiles nodded.

“Me, either,” he said, and he leaned against Derek’s side, breath tiny clouds in front of his face as he looked up at the stars. Derek turned his attention forward again, delighting in Stiles’ warmth against him. “I mean… I think I know what you were going to say. You’ve never felt this light before… right?”

Derek sighed, tension easing from his shoulders. “Exactly right.”

Stiles smiled, resting his head against Derek’s shoulder as he laid his hand over Derek’s paw. “Good… I thought I sounded… well,” Stiles laughed.

Derek’s tail wagged gently, and he found himself almost resting his head atop Stiles’. He cleared his throat, glancing awkwardly away as he removed himself from Stiles’ side, the contact broken. Stiles stood up, looking after Derek with an almost worried expression.

The moon was slowly being veiled by wispy clouds drifting from the west, and Derek spoke around the emotions threatening to choke him. “I… I suppose it’s silly of me, to think a creature like me could one day hope to earn your affection,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady.

He looked back at Stiles, who’s hands were shaking on the balcony rail. “...I don’t know,” he said.

Derek’s breath caught. “Really? Then… I mean, you think you could be happy. Here, with me?”

Stiles smiled, and the beauty of it made Derek’s chest ache. But then Stiles’ smile softened, and he looked back up at the sky, then out at the gardens. When he looked back at Derek, his expression became somber. “Can anyone be truly happy if they aren’t free?”

Derek blinked, and he looked down at Stiles’ hands again, reaching out without thinking. He laid one paw over both of Stiles’ hands, and the trembling ceased.

Stiles sighed. “I just…” he cleared his throat. “My, uhm. My dad taught me how to dance. I used to step on his toes.” Derek understood Stiles’ change of subject for exactly what it was, and his ears dropped as he looked back at the gardens.

“You must miss him,” Derek said quietly.

Stiles’ expression pinched, and he closed his eyes. “Very much.”

Derek sighed, sliding one of Stiles’ hands into his, tugging. “Come with me…”

**

The night was unseasonably cold as Parrish waited alongside Peter’s house, pacing. When Peter finally emerged, Parrish followed after him quietly half the way to the tavern.

“You’re sulking,” Peter said, irritated.

 _You noticed_ , Parrish thought, less irritated. “I just… I feel bad about John,” he said, and Peter rolled his eyes, groaning.

He slung an arm over Parrish’ shoulders and tugged him close. “Parrish, sometimes we have to get our hands dirty to get what we want.”

“I just, and I mean he was, we just _left_ him there. All by himself, tied to a tree… coughing.”

“Old men cough sometimes,” Peter groused. “Have some backbone.”

They reached the tavern, and Parrish pushed the door open and let Peter walk in before him. “I don’t know, Peter. Every time I close my eyes I just see—“

Peter stopped abruptly in front of him, and Parrish walked into his back. He stuttered, and then looked over Peter’s shoulder.

“John!”

The tavern was quiet, everyone turning to look at Peter. John was by the fireplace, several people sitting close by him.

The barkeep came around the counter, pointing at Peter. “Peter… Is it true you tried to kill John?”

Peter’s bright eyes widened, and he stumbled back against Parrish. “ _What?_ ” he laughed.

Parrish looked at the floor.

“Why would I do such a thing? And especially to the father of the man I’m in love with?” Peter gaped, and John got up, glaring at him.

“You tied me to a tree and left me to the wolves,” he spat indignantly.

“I don’t recall ever doing such a thing! We went looking for Stiles, and when we couldn’t find him, the weather was rather foul, and you went into the woods on your own,” Peter said. “And, in the end, it’s just your word against mine, isn’t it?”

John’s brows pinched together, and he moved to step forward. Lydia caught his arm. He looked down at her, her expression neutral, her eyes on Peter’s face. “Lydia… Lydia was there. She saved me.”

Peter laughed, strutting over to the fireplace. “You would hang your testimony on the word of a filthy hag? No offense, Lydia,” he said, patting her shoulder.

She glanced down at his hand, brows arching.

John looked across the room, to where Peter had left Parrish standing. “Jordan… _he_ was there,” John said, and he stepped around the side of the table and looked at Parrish pointedly.

He lifted his head, blinking. “I, uhm… me?”

Peter laughed, nodding. “Of course! Don’t take my word for it,” he said, and he crossed the room and put a hand on Parrish’s shoulder. “Parrish,” Peter said. He cupped Parrish’s cheek. “ _Jordan…_ Did I tie up the father of my future bride to be and leave him for dead in the woods?”

Parrish blinked up at him, but the contact had left his brain slightly scrambled. “I… it’s a very complicated question, uhm—“

Peter leaned closer, gently bumping his forehead against Parrish’s. He was smiling, and his hand on Parrish’s jaw tensed. Parrish stammered, and looked away sharply. His voice cracked when he said, “No. No, you did not.”

There was a murmur in the tavern, and John shook his head, glaring at Parrish with disappointment.

Peter nodded, smiling, and he turned to John and frowned. “John… you’ve been making some wild accusations around town lately. It… it’s no wonder Stiles ran away.”

John was shaking then, and his hands curled to fists. “You son of a—“

Peter caught his punch easily, but his expression betrayed his calm. He was honestly surprised, and he was honestly enraged. “John,” he said, and his voice was dangerous and low. “It’s obvious you’ve become a danger to yourself and others around you. I’m sorry to say this, but you’re unwell.”

John winced, Peter’s hand on his wrist pressing hard against muscle and bone. Peter was loose on his hinges, and nobody noticed.

“Don’t worry, John,” Peter said, shaking his head. “We’ll get you the help you need.” He glanced up at some of the men and jerked his chin.

They grabbed John without hesitation.

**

Derek was holding Stiles’ hand as they walked into his lair, and Stiles’ eyes flittered from the bedroom door to the balcony. Derek released his hand and walked over to the marble table that sat before the open air of the balcony. The rose’s glow tinted him in muted amber and pink.

Stiles had been in Derek’s bedroom a few times now, but he had not been so close to the rose since that night with the wolves. Derek touched the bell jar lightly, almost as a muscle memory, a habit, and then picked up a silver mirror from the table.

He turned to Stiles and gestured for him to come closer, and Stiles fussed with a handful of his tulle cape as he walked over, standing close enough to Derek to feel his warmth.

So close to Derek, comforted by the soft intake of his breath, that night seemed like a lifetime ago. Stiles couldn’t even remember the sound of Derek’s roar; it seemed impossible that the person standing next to him and the Beast that had raged at him were the same. Stiles’ hands shook as Derek handed him the mirror. “My window,” he said. “This mirror will show you anything… anyone or anywhere.”

Stiles took the mirror, his fingers touching Derek’s as he cradled the ornate silver and glass in his hands. He looked up at Derek. “What do I do?”

“Just ask it,” Derek said, and his eyes softened and he released the mirror and Stiles’ hands in turn.

Stiles looked down into the mirror, wetting his lips. “I’d like to see my dad… please.”

A spark of green lightning crawled across the mirror’s frame and handle, and a bright light flashed out of the reflective surface before Stiles saw his father in the mirror. He was being dragged out of Peter’s tavern by two men, a crowd gathered in the square. The light of the lamps flickered, and though John was yelling something, Stiles heard nothing but an echoic rush of incoherent words.

Stiles’ expression pinched with worry, and his hands began to shake. When he spoke, his voice was tremulous. “It’s… he’s in trouble. My dad’s in trouble! What are they doing to him?”

Derek gently touched his paw to the glass bell jar, looking past the rose, to a place that didn’t exist. Stiles’ panic had pushed a cold weight into Derek’s chest, and his throat felt tight when he tried to speak. “Then… you have to go to him.” He turned to Stiles, reigning in his expression, carefully taking a breath. “There’s no time to lose.”

Stiles’ brows furrowed, and he brought the mirror to his chest. “You… what did you say?”

Derek stood up straight, clearing his throat. “I said I release you. You’re free, Stiles. Go.”

Stiles took a step back, which felt like stepping on glass behind Derek’s ribs. He looked down at the mirror again, stammering. “But… I can go?”

“Yes. Go to your father. Quickly.”

A small, bewildered smile touched Stiles’ lips, and he stepped closer to Derek again, holding out the mirror.

Derek pushed it gently against his chest. “Take it with you. So you’ll always have a way to look back and remember me.” He gently touched the curve of Stiles’ jaw, one beauty mark to the next, and watched those warm honey eyes droop slightly at the contact.

Stiles exhaled harshly, stepping back. “Thank you… Thank you, Derek.”

But he still wasn’t moving. Derek said again, “Go.”

Stiles took a few small steps backward, and Derek’s throat went tight. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. He needed to see this, needed to remember. He could never forget Stiles’ pale skin glowing against the warm sunshine of his coat, his beautiful, long-fingered hands fluttering uncomfortably on the mirror, his hair once again unruly and uncombed after their dance. Those burning honey eyes looking at Derek, hesitant, hopeful.

Derek took a harsh step forward, and pleaded, “Stiles, _go!_ ”

Startled, Stiles seemed to sober up at the tone of Derek’s voice, demanding, desperate. He kept going, taking less timid steps, backing away from Derek and the rose, until he turned and bolted, the sound of the door creaking behind him following his echoing footsteps.

Derek turned back to the rose, squeezing his eyes shut. He tried to breathe in, tried to fight around the pain pushing hard against his chest, and found himself helpless. He whimpered, ears flattening against his head as he doubled over, practically folding over the crystal around the rose, his claws drawing along the surface.

*

Stiles ran through the castle, down the steps to the foyer. The candles were dimming, and the front door swung open with a yawning groan. He hesitated, seeing Danny standing there with his new cloak hanging off one arm.

Smiling, Stiles bowed lightly, and he pushed the fabric away. “Thank you, Danny,” he said quietly, and the coatrack bowed its head gently. “…Bye.”

Stiles bolted out the door, which swung shut slowly behind him, and Danny slouched heavily as it clicked with finality, Stiles cloak sliding to the floor.

*

Jackson was at the top of the stairs when Stiles ran past, and he hurried into the West Wing to find Derek still bent over the table, horns a dark crown over his flat ears and bowed head.

“De… Master?” He called quietly, and Derek’s tail swept across the floor. “Where… where is Stiles going?”

Derek lifted his head slightly, looking down at the rose. The glow of pink and gold across his dark face showed Jackson the dark glitter in his eyes, the dampness on his fur. His voice was a growl. “I… I let him go.”

Jackson hurried forward, springs and gears clinking. “You, uhm… I’m sorry, what?”

“I let him go. He’s free… he’s gone,” Derek said, each word coming out less pinched.

Nodding, Jackson flailed his arms in the air. “Yes, I got that part, Master. I… I just… how could you do that?”

“I had to.” Derek’s paw curled to a fist on the marble surface of the table, and he sighed heavily. “I _had_ to, Jackson.”

Trembling with frustration, Jackson stomped forward, losing more gears and cogs. “Well if you _had_ to, Master, tell me _why_.”

Derek’s ears pricked forward, his eyes dancing with light. He exhaled shakily, tail swishing, gusting snow across the floor. He turned to Jackson, brows furrowed, and he sounded so, _so_ tired. “Because… I love him.”

Jackson took a few small steps back, teetering off balance. He wasn't sure how to respond to that, the words taking him by surprise. “Oh… Well, if that’s all…”

Derek sighed, turning away. “I’m sorry, Jackson… I’m sorry to all of you. I set Stiles free, but I couldn’t do the same for all of you… I deserve to be this… this beast forever.”

Jackson jolted, looking around the room awkwardly. “Master, don’t. That’s—“

“Just go… tell the others I’ve failed you,” Derek said, and he turned away from the rose and went out onto the balcony. “We don’t have much time left now…”

“But… You _love_ him,” Jackson said, his voice borderline angry, and he jolted when he felt a weight on his narrow shoulder.

Scott was there, and behind him Mrs. McCall and Danny. “But Stiles doesn’t love _him_ …” On the balcony, Derek’s shoulders heaved, and Scott tugged on Jackson. “Come, _mon ami._ Let us give him some peace.”

Mrs. McCall was crying, very quietly. They all turned and left him, and when the door shut, Derek sagged against the balcony rail.

He was content to rest his face against the cold stone until he heard a loud neigh, and then the sound of gravel crunching. Lifting his head, Derek saw Stiles riding Roscoe, galloping full speed through the hedge gardens, a glow of gold as he went.

Derek inhaled heavily, but it didn’t ease the pain. In fact, it made it worse. He felt suffocated, panting harshly as he kept his eyes on Stiles, walking across the balcony to the tower stairs.

He did this to himself. Derek let Stiles in, and then he let him go, and he could feel a tether being pulled in his chest, a link to Stiles that he would never be able to break. There was something in him now, something that would never leave him, even if Stiles did. Derek couldn’t stand it.

He climbed the stairs, gaining speed as he went, pausing at each window, claws scraping against the stone as he caught glimpses of Stiles riding through the maze of roses.

Up, up, up. Derek climbed the tower, whining as Stiles grew further away, harder to see. Derek kept going, desperate to steal every last glimpse of Stiles that he could, his ribs too tight for his heart, his heart too heavy for him to bear.

When Derek reached the top of the tower, he climbed out the window and onto the flat edge of the roof, his eyes following the warm, sunshine glow of Stiles as he reached the edge of the castle gardens and Roscoe galloped into the forest.

When the trees swallowed Stiles up, stealing that final glance from him, Derek shuddered. His claws tore at the stone shingles, and his body felt numb as something burned up his chest, clawing and hot at the back of his throat.

Dragging in a deep breath, Derek squeezed his eyes shut and threw his head back. He roared; a thunderous, broken sound that dragged on and on like a howl, tearing from Derek’s chest and pouring out all the weight in his aching heart.

When he could cry out no longer, Derek gasped, eyes burning, heart trembling. Then he doubled over and roared again.

**

The roar drifted through the forest, quaking off the trees, and Stiles turned his head sharply and looked over his shoulder.

The castle was out of his sight now, and with it Derek, but he had never heard that sound before. That sound had Stiles’ chest constricting, his hands white knuckled on the reins as he looked forward again, finding it harder and harder to breathe the further he got from the castle.

**

The asylum wagon sat in the square, dimly lit by the flickering lamps as Peter watched a few men drag John out of the tavern across the stones. He was making quite a fuss, which shouldn’t have surprised Peter, but Parrish’s silence beside him was more unsettling.

“You want to be next then?” He said, and Parrish flinched.

“Peter, I—“

“Do you?”

Parrish looked down at his feet, shaking his head. “Good. Then keep your mouth shut and your head up.” Peter sauntered over to the wagon as the men tossed John inside, and he leaned against the closed door and looked through the bars, grinning. “You know, John, this is… _really_ not how I wanted this to go. But there’s still time to fix it. Just give me Stiles.”

Clamoring onto one of the benches, John huffed out a dry laugh. He glared at Peter heatedly. “Never.”

Peter’s lip quivered, the ghost of a snarl, and he shoved off the wagon. “Take him away.”

The wagon quaked, and the wheels cracked across the stones of the town square. And then there was a scream, angry in its desperation. “STOP!”

Peter tilted his head to the side just as Roscoe skidded to a halt in front of the horses dragging the wagon, Stiles jumping off of his back.

“Stiles?”

“It’s Stiles!”

“What’s he wearing?”

The villagers were in a commotion as Stiles ran around the carriage to the back of the wagon, climbing onto the back step.

“Dad!”

“Stiles! Oh my god, _Stiles_ ,” John said, reaching an arm through the bars to cup Stiles’ cheek in his hand. Stiles pressed his face into the touch, eyes burning with tears.

“I came fast as I could, I’m sorry!” He turned away, finding the collector standing there. “Let him out!”

He snapped it with such demanding ferocity, such dignity, that a few of the villagers looked startled, and the asylum collector looked impressed. “Sorry, hon, can’t do that, but we will take good care of him.”

“My father’s not crazy!” Stiles jumped off the wagon, and he saw Peter just a few feet away. “Peter! Tell him. Tell him my dad’s not crazy!”

“I can’t do that, Stiles,” Peter said with false sweetness. “Your father has been stirring up quite the commotion since you ran away.”

“Ran away?” Stiles hissed.

“It’s true, Stiles,” one of the villagers called, and Stiles turned to see a few of them looking guilty. “He said you were locked in a dungeon in some castle.”

“With a beast!” Someone else added.

Stiles raked a hand through his hair. “I just came from the castle. There _is_ a beast!” He paused, shaking his head. “Well, I mean, I wouldn’t _call_ him that, that’s insensitive. But—“

“Stiles,” Peter said sharply, “that’s your father. You would say anything to protect him.” He looked to the other villagers, who were murmuring frantically now. “You have no proof!”

His fingers felt numb and his chest felt hot, and Stiles snapped, “Proof? You want _proof?_ ” He pulled the mirror out of his dress coat and held it up. “Show me the Beast!”

A crackle of green lightning and blue light washed across the mirror and then there was Derek, snarling and roaring like mad, fangs dropped, horns gleaming.

Some of the villagers gasped, most of them screamed, and Peter froze.

“What is that thing?!”

“It’s a monster!”

Stiles felt that word like a pinch at the back of his neck, and he rushed forward, hugging the mirror against his chest. “No! No, no, I know what he looks like, but that’s not what he is. He’s kind, and gentle! He would never hurt anyone!”

Peter stepped behind Stiles, watching as Stiles lowered the mirror and touched his fingertips across the buckle of Derek’s cape as he roared again, the echo of sound becoming a howl.

“He’s my friend,” Stiles said, barely audible, and Peter grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

“If I didn’t know any better, Stiles, I’d say you had _feelings_ for this monster,” Peter growled, his grip on Stiles’ shoulder bruising.

And if that wasn’t an alarm going off in Stiles’ head, he didn’t know what could be. Derek would never, _ever_ grab him like that—not even when they hated each other, not even when Derek was snarling and breaking things.

“He’s not a monster, Peter; _you_ are!” Stiles snapped, and he heard the alarmed voices of the crowd rising in commotion.

Peter grabbed the mirror, twisting it out of Stiles’ hand with a sneer. “The Beast has him under a spell!”

Stiles stumbled back. “ _What?_ No!”

The crowd murmured as Peter looked into the mirror. “I’ve heard of the effects of dark magic, but I’ve never actually seen them. Stiles has been bewitched by this monster!”

“No, that’s—“

“The Beast will come for your children; he’ll stalk through the village and pick us off in the night!” Peter held the mirror up, a sparking flash of green illuminating Derek’s snarling face.

The villagers began shouting things that sounded like agreement, and Stiles felt his stomach sinking with panic.

“It’ll wreak havoc on the village!”

“We aren’t safe until it’s dead!”

Peter jumped up onto the back of the asylum carriage and thrust the mirror into the air. “I say we _kill the Beast!!_ ” He broke the lamp off the side of the carriage and threw it onto a nearby pile of hay which ignited like dry grass, blazing hot and high, temporarily blinding Stiles.

In a frenzy, the villagers became a mob in an uproar of approval, and Stiles was being grabbed and dragged backwards by somebody in the mob. “No! Don’t hurt him!”

Peter’s fingers curled under his chin and Stiles felt sick with rage. “Say you’ll marry me, and we’ll stay right here.”

Stiles tasted bile in the back of his throat, and without thinking, he snapped his teeth at Peter’s hand, an echo of Derek. Peter snatched his fingers back, eyes wide. Still glaring, Stiles curled his lip back over his teeth, and then he was shoved into the carriage, the sound of a steel lock clanking against the door hitting his ears.

He grabbed the bars and glared at Peter, watching as the villagers rallied around the bonfire, lighting torches and grabbing axes and shovels and knives. Peter got onto his horse, the mirror still static crackling in his hand, and he charged off, followed closely by other people on their horses, then the mass of bodies flooding out of the square with torches held high.

Stiles sagged backwards when his father’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, hugging him close. “Stiles, thank goodness you’re safe.”

“I have to warn him,” Stiles murmured, then wriggled out of his father’s grasp. He grabbed the bars, slipping his hand through. His fingers touched the edge of the lock.

“You wha—“

“I have to _save_ Derek!”

**

Jackson was pacing in a fit across the foyer, arms behind his back. “I don’t get it. I don’t _get_ it. _How_ can Stiles not love him?”

Allison turned in the circle of Scott’s arms, feathers ruffled. “Oh, Jackson.”

“I want a real answer! Didn’t it seem like he loved Master?”

Sighing, Mrs. McCall steamed at him. “It’s not that simple, love.”

A few timid notes plinked across the harpsichord keys, and Scott nodded. “Boyd is right. Love is not so cut and dry as we had hoped.”

Isaac looked up at Danny. “But he could come back.”

“There’s no time for that, Isaac… The rose only has one petal left,” Jackson said tiredly.

Sadly, Mrs. McCall nodded. “But at least the Master got something out of all this…”

A flicker of gold on the window caught Scott’s attention, and he jolted upright, hugging Allison tighter. “Could it be?” He hopped onto the windowsill, and Jackson followed less gracefully.

“Is it him?” Mrs. McCall followed them, and then Boyd came over as well.

They all looked out the window as the mob appeared at the edge of the gardens, torches blazing out of the forest.

“ _Sacre bleu!_ Invaders!” Scott yelped.

“They have the mirror!” Mrs. McCall gasped.

Jackson slumped. “So much for true love.”

Danny flailed his arms, quickly stumbling over to the door, sliding the locks in place.

“Scott, what are we going to do?” Allison said, spinning quickly as he jumped down from the windowsill and hurried across the floor.

“Warn the Master and barricade the door! We defend the castle! _En guarde!_ ” They ran to the door, Boyd sidling up against it as the flames drew closer. “ _Jackson!_ Go warn the Master!”

“Don’t tell me what to do, candlestick,” Jackson snapped even as he turned and began hopping up the stairs at double-time. “Glowing head snapping orders at me,” he groused as he hurried.

Scott slid and slammed his back against the door, tiny as he was. “Isaac! Wake the castle!”

“But everyone’s—“

“You can do it!”

Sighing, Isaac turned and hopped onto his saucer, rolling around the corner and down the hall.

“Be careful, love!” Mrs. McCall yelled after him.

*

Jackson was winded as a clock could be by the time he reached the sitting room of the West Wing, where he found the rose abandoned. He went out onto the balcony, looking to the paw prints on the stairs. Then he fell onto his back trying to look up, catching a glimpse of Derek’s cloak fraying in the wind. “Oh, f—“

**

Stiles fingers could barely reach the lock, and he already had his chest crushed against the door and his knees back as far as they would go. “Oh my god, why is this so hard?”

“Stiles!” John snapped, dragging him back, turning him to put his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. “First of all, what are you wearing?”

“Oh! Erica made it for me. It was for the ball; it’s a waistcoat. And a jacket. Obviously,” Stiles said, squirming in his father’s hold. “The pants are a bit much. But the cape is definitely great.”

“Oh, right, that’s obvious. How did you escape!” John shook him and Stiles grabbed his wrists to stop him.

“I didn’t escape, dad, Derek let me go,” Stiles said, watching the confusion pinch up his father’s features.

“ _Derek?_ ”

“It’s a long story, I don't have time to explain right now, but…” He reached into his vest and pulled out the necklace, the rose hanging from the chain illuminated by the burning light of the hay through the bars. John reached for the chain immediately, touching Stiles’ fingers and then the rose charm.

“How did you—“

“It’s a longer story. He took me there… I know what happened to my mom,” Stiles said slowly, and then John cupped his cheek.

“Then… Then you know why I had to leave her there, I… I had to protect you. I’ve always done my best to protect you, you know,” John said, and Stiles sat forward and bumped their foreheads together.

“I know, dad. But right now, I have to protect Derek,” Stiles said, and then he scowled. “But curse my stupid arms, I can’t get the angle for the lock! All limbs and I can never reach anything!”

John looked down at Stiles’ jacket, and he quickly pulled one of the gold pins free from his breast, bending it backwards into a long stem of metal. “I could try,” John said.

Grinning, Stiles scooted back, “Need any help, old man?”

“Don’t. Don’t sass me, I’m trying to get us out of here so you can go save a big talking dog.”

“That’s insensitive.”

**

Jackson rounded the corner, stumbling, a few stray wheels and pins busting free from his open glass panel and skittering down the stairs. “Master… Master the castle. It’s under attack.”

Derek was hunched over by one of the broken gargoyles, his cloak billowing in the rising wind, snow powdered across his mane. He had taken the ribbon from his hair and discarded his fine navy jacket and cravat, the wind rustling his thin white shirt. “Yes, I can see that, Jackson…” His eyes glinted with the glow of the flames dancing through the gardens.

“Well… Master, what should we do?” Jackson said pathetically, gesturing down to the battering ram approaching the doors.

A call high on the wind echoed in his ears, numbing him more than the fierce snow. _Kill the Beast, kill the Beast._

“Master!”

Derek grumbled, leaning against the snow-dusted statue beside him. “It doesn’t matter now… Just let them come.”

*

The first hit of the battering ram against the door knocked everybody except for Boyd to the floor.

“This isn’t going to work!” Mrs. McCall said desperately.

Allison fluttered across the floor, watching Boyd quake as the door was struck again. “Scott, what do we do?”

Another slam, a mighty heave, and Isaac came hopping around the corner. “Scott, Scott, they’re all awake! They’re awake!”

Scott pressed one burning candle to another, sparks sizzling between them. “I’ve got it.”

There was a scramble, a dash, and then Danny flipped the locks open, and when the battering ram struck again, the doors swung open with a bang.

The mob filed in, torches still flickering, the foyer painted with shadows and flame. Everything was still and quiet, and someone murmured, “Doesn’t this place seem familiar?”

Parrish leaned around Peter, reaching out for Scott, who was still burning, sitting on top of Boyd. He ran his thumb over the metal, observing the flames. “Why is this lit?”

“It’s a signal, stupid,” Scott said, and then all the candles in the room flared to life. “Attack!”

In a flurry, the servants sprung on the mob, throwing dishes and books, Danny throwing punches, and then the mob was a mess of screaming villagers.

Mrs. McCall splashed boiling water on a people from the top of the stairs, spinning as a figure darted swiftly through the commotion up the stairs with a crossbow. “ _Peter?_ ” She gasped.

**

The asylum collector came around the square once again, and he hesitated when he saw the doors to the wagon gaped open. He ran over, flinging them wider, peering inside. “Oh…” He shut the doors, John leaning against the wagon to one side of him, Stiles’ dress jacket hanging over his arm in bright butter gold. His cape glittered in the firelight.

“Here, sorry. I think I broke it,” he said, handing over the lock, and the man ogled him like he’d grown two heads.

Stiles bolted off on Roscoe, his silk shirt and waistcoat white as snow. He looked over his shoulder with a grin, and Roscoe took off down the cobblestone path that led to the forest.

John sagged against the wagon. “He’s a handful, that kid. Headfirst into everything.” He looked at the collector and arched his brows. “Do you have children?”

**

Peter kicked a door down, bow raised, and he stepped into the dark room. Nothing. He twisted out and back into the shadows, further up the stairs, into the West Wing. Meanwhile, Lydia moved through the destruction downstairs, calm and unseen.

*

“Scott! Scott, Peter is here!” Mrs. McCall yelled over the commotion of the mob being absolutely destroyed by the inanimate objects protecting the castle.

Scott paused his assault of singing off eyebrows and trousers to look up at the chandelier Mrs. McCall swung from. “What?”

“I saw _Peter!_ ”

Scott gasped. “As in _uncl—_ “he was abruptly cut off when Mrs. McCall swung round too sharply, her pot handle slipping free of the chandelier hook. Amongst the commotion, Isaac yelled, “Mama!”

And then Mrs. McCall was caught in a pair of very human hands. “Oh! Thank you, hon!” She paused, looking up at the young, handsome face that belonged to the hands holding her. “Aren’t you on the wrong side?”

“Well, see,” Parrish started, “I was on Peter’s side? But we are in a very bad place right now, and I’m honestly sick of it?”

Mrs. McCall smiled up at him. “You deserve better anyway, hon.”

“Did he say Peter?” Scott said loudly, and then plugged his nose and blasted a rather intimidating fireball out of the wick atop his head.

Parrish swung around, a spray of hot water leaving Mrs. McCall’s spout. “I did!”

“He went upstairs!” She yelled, and then Jackson was running down the stairs, leaping onto the bannister with a pair of long scissors under his arm like a rapier.

“Aha!” He slid down the bannister of the stairs, flying off at the end, the scissors stabbing into the backside of one of the villagers. They let out a rather girlish squeal, turning and heading right for the door.

“Jackson! Master is in danger! Upstairs—“Scott yelled.

“Nobody upstairs but the Master, and he’s brooding too heavily to join the fight. More for me!” Jackson shouted back, and then stabbed another rump.

Mrs. McCall yelled, “Peter is here!”

“Wait,” Parrish started, ducking as a saucer flew by his head. “How do you all know Peter?”

**

Stiles charged through the forest, breathing heavy as if he were the one running. Roscoe turned down the dark, narrow lane, the snow appearing not long after. Despite only wearing his thin white vest and his dress shirt beneath his cloak, Stiles wasn’t freezing.

He was burning up with urgency, his hands white-knuckled on the reins.

 _Almost there, hold on_.

He could hear the wolves in the distance, an echoic howl followed by another, and then hungry snarls.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. _Almost there._

**

Erica had managed to get to the balcony as the fight was getting good, and getting good meant that there was a small circle of men with axes surrounding Boyd.

“ _Boyd!_ _Maestro_!” Erica yelled, and she hopped up onto the bannister of the balcony.

Boyd’s keys rang loudly, and he spoke for the first time in years. “Erica!!”

“I’m coming, honey, don’t you worry!” Erica shouted, and then she leapt from the balcony with an operatic trill, landing on a length of floorboard that sprang up beneath her weight. It sent several men flying, and then Erica was busying herself wrapping the remaining villagers in ribbons, giggling loudly to herself. “My pretty, pretty boys!”

The three of them had been transformed into very well-painted portraits of pink and yellow and lilac, powdered wigs and red lips looking down at themselves in disbelief. Two of them screamed and ran.

The third was Liam, and he looked down at his flowing gown, then up at Erica. He grinned, long eyelashes fluttering before he spun in his skirt and sauntered gracefully down the steps.

“Go, my pretty boys! Oh, _maestro!_ ” Erica skid over to Boyd, whose keys were playing a loud and melodious harmony of notes.

“My Erica,” Boyd sighed.

“They’re retreating!” Scott yelled. “ _La victoire!_ ”

“The Master!” Mrs. McCall gasped, and already Jackson was doing his best to climb the stairs in his exhausted state.

**

The doors to the West Wing swung open harshly, one banging against the wall behind it. Peter held his crossbow aloft, pointing it in each direction before he stalked forward. In front of him the rose glowed, petal dripping, soft gold sparks vanishing before they touched the dead petals below.

He turned to the left and halted, lowering his bow slowly as he looked up at the painting hanging in the large bedroom through the open doorway. A handsome man, a beautiful woman, two beautiful girls. Peter stared, trying to understand why, why that woman’s face seemed so very familiar, her eyes the same color as his, the waves of her hair a memory.

He was distracted only for a moment before there was a heavy growl above him, and then the creaking of shingles. Derek had leapt down from the higher balcony to the one below, landing with a graceful, snowy thud before the marble table the rose sat upon.

Peter pressed his back against the stone wall, watching as Derek walked over to the rose, ran a paw over the bell jaw. He bowed his head, horns damp from the snow as he pressed his forehead to the carved crystal, whimpering.

Peter leaned around the corner, aiming his crossbow.

Derek’s ear twitched, and he looked into the shadows without moving his head. Peter’s aim was steady, and Derek looked back down at the rose, running his thumb over the cuts in the crystal again, shoulders slumping as his tail curled against one leg.

“You must be the Beast,” Peter said, lip curling up in a cruel smile. “Stiles sent me.”

Derek’s breath caught in his throat, his brows pinching together. His chest constricted, his ribs too tight for his already breaking heart, and he whined pitifully, pushing his forehead back against the glass again.

He didn’t have the will to move, nor the fight to snarl when Peter loosed the arrow, sending it in a straight cut through the air where it stabbed into Derek’s shoulder. Derek gasped, clawing at his shoulder, unable to reach the shaft where it stuck out from his back. It burned, it burned _so much_ , and Derek found it hard to breathe before Peter slammed into him, knocking the wind from his lungs.

Derek stumbled over the rail of the balcony, clawing at the shingles on the roof before he slid down and crashed against a stone platform beside a steep area of roof. Derek lay still where he fell, the arrow shaft broken, the head stuck in his flesh.

Peter jumped down the balcony, sliding across the roof and landing lithely beside Derek’s fallen form. “Get up. Get _up!_ ” Peter snapped, and he kicked Derek in the side so hard he turned over.

Derek snapped his teeth, paws slipping on the damp stone as he clawed his way onto all fours, but Peter kicked him again.

“What’s the matter, Beast? Too kind and gentle to fight back?” Peter laughed cruelly, and Derek growled, pitifully, bracing himself before he leapt, slamming against the side of another tower, which he ably climbed, dodging another arrow as Peter fired it.

With a bitter wind, the snow intensified, and then, it became rain, heavy sheets pouring down from a dark, churning sky that cracked with lightning.

Peter reached down for his thigh quiver, and when his fingers brushed empty air he looked down.

Behind him, Stiles snapped the remaining three arrows over his knee, throwing their spear tips over the ledge. Peter gaped at him, honestly surprised.

Stiles had been soaked by the rain and torn his elaborate golden pants while running through the commotion downstairs, and he was glaring up at Peter with ferocity. “I won’t let you hurt him,” Stiles growled, and Peter smiled, letting his head fall back as he pulled his musket from his belt.

“Darling, we are going to go back to the village after this, you _will_ marry me, and that thing’s _head_ will hang on our wall!”

Stiles lunged for the gun, and the stones slipped under his boots as he and Peter struggled. Twisting with all his weight, Stiles threw himself to the ground, taking Peter with him, the gun flying from their hands when Peter’s arm smacked against the stone. It fell far out of sight, down into the shadows between the chasms of towers and stone walls.

Peter looked at Stiles with nothing in his eyes. “You little—“

Stiles got to his feet and ran, twisting through a narrow window, jumping from one tower to the next, making his way to the stairs that would take him to the rose’s balcony. “Derek!” Stiles yelled, and he wasn’t sure if Derek heard over the storm.

But Derek had, turning frantically, looking in every direction as his heart began to race. “Stiles?”

*

Peter turned his attention back to the long roof where Derek had disappeared, snarling as he looked across the way. There was a thin stone bridge arching from one tower to the length of outcropped stone, and Peter followed it, stopping only briefly for a weapon. All along the length of the roof there were gargoyles and sharp, tree-like shards of stone, and Peter easily broke one off and held it aloft, looking through the shadows and the rain beside the slant of another steep roof.

Peter looked down, his foot catching on something. Derek had shed his long black cloak, the silver stitches sparking when another flash of lightning cut the sky.

Taking a few steps forward, Peter swung the club down, busting the head off of a black gargoyle.

“Are you in love with him, Beast?” Peter called, a crack of lightning and the roar of thunder illuminating the stone figures. “Do you honestly think he’d want you when he could have me?” Peter swung again, another gargoyle head broken to shards of black marble. And then another. “When I leave here, I’m taking Stiles and your head with me!” Furious, blinded by the rain, Peter swung again, and this time, the gargoyle fought back.

Derek caught the length of stone in his paw, snarling as he rose to full height.

Peter gaped, Derek’s ears flat, long muzzle crinkled as he bared his fangs and roared in Peter’s face. Derek snapped the stone beneath his paw, and when Peter was stunned by the sudden ferocity, he backhanded him into the steep roof with his paw.

His tail swept across the rainy stone, and when Derek got onto all fours and stalked forward, Peter honestly looked afraid. _Good_ , Derek thought. He should be.

Derek bared his teeth again, and when Peter lunged for him, not willing to back down from the fight, Derek grabbed him by the throat and dragged him across the ground. He snarled, lifting Peter easily off the floor, holding him out over the edge of the roof as another blinding strike of lightning slashed the sky.

Peter clung desperately to Derek’s wrist, wheezing as he said pitifully, “Don’t let me go! Don’t! Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me, Beast!”

Another deafening roar of thunder, the rain settling back only slightly as the clouds pressed in tight, gray and black and burning silver.

Derek’s feral sneer melted slowly off of his face, and he stared into Peter’s eyes and saw his mother looking back. “…Peter…”

Peter choked, gasped, and his nails bit at Derek’s skin through his damp, thick fur.

This was his uncle. His uncle that had abandoned him just before the curse was placed, his uncle that had let out his anger and frustration and loss on Derek’s small, fragile heart and mind. There wasn’t one Hale left—there were two… And suddenly, Derek wished again that he was the last, that he was alone.

But he was, really. Peter had no idea who Derek was, and as such, he had no idea who he was himself. He wasn't Derek’s uncle… he was just a man. A monster.

Derek backed up, bringing Peter back onto the roof, where he towered over him, dragging Peter onto his knees. “…I am _not_ … a Beast.”

He shoved Peter to the floor, releasing him with a snarl, and Peter struggled to get to his knees, coughing and wheezing. “Get out. I never want to see your face again… Get out.”

“Derek!” Stiles yelled, and Derek’s ears tilted towards the sound, head turning sharply up to the balcony.

Derek’s smile was blinding, ears standing straight up as his tail outright wagged. “ _Stiles_.”

Stiles leaned over the balcony, holding out his hand, rain sweeping his hair across his face, sticking his shirt to his skin. “I’m sorry! I tried to stop them, I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“You came back!” Derek roared, something sparking up inside of him that bled all the pain and cold and anger out of him. Derek crouched and lunged, leaping halfway up the roof’s side. He climbed the rest of the way, Stiles’ rambling apologies lost to his ears as he found his chest burning up with too much for him to hold at just the sight of Stiles’ face.

Stiles only stopped talking when Derek took his hand, hanging onto the edge of the balcony with the other paw. Derek’s smile grew even wider, his eyes bright and warm as he released Stiles’ hand in favor of cupping his face in his large paw.

Stiles pressed into the touch, using both his hands to hold Derek’s paw to his cheek. His skin was warm despite the storm, a familiar comfort that made Derek’s chest ache.

Derek spoke softly, reverent as the wind whipped his mane, his tail, his eyes searching Stiles’ face. “You came back…”

Smiling, Stiles closed his eyes. He leaned over the balcony and pressed his forehead to Derek’s, and Derek closed his eyes as well.

There was a soft, dark sound, cotton and flesh tearing, and it was louder than the storm in its closeness.

A sudden burst of pain raw as fire tore through Derek’s side, and he threw his head back and roared.

“Derek, no!” Stiles screamed, and he grabbed onto Derek’s shirt and yanked.

Peter had climbed the roof, his hold on Derek’s shirt securing him as he tore his long hunting knife out of Derek’s side. Peter raised the blade to strike again, blood soaking fast through the pale, wet material. Derek snarled, his lips pulled back over his teeth in pain as his tail swished, his back paws slipping on the roof’s slick shingles.

When Derek slipped, Peter’s feet kicked a shingle free, and he dropped the knife, flailing for a moment before Derek’s shirt ripped in his hand. He fell, straight off the roof into one of the shadowy gaps between the cliff sides of the castle, a scream in his throat.

“Don’t, please, come on,” Stiles gasped, and he yanked Derek forward again, harder, helping him bow his weight over the balcony before he crawled on all fours onto the stone. Derek collapsed onto his side, and Stiles pressed his hand over the wound, the blood burning hot to his rain-soaked senses. “Der…”

The battle downstairs had been won, and those who could ascend the stairs had done so, and they stood in the doorway of Derek’s room, looking on as the rain softened on the balcony outside.

Stiles fought to remain calm, his heart trying to climb out from behind his ribs up his throat. He breathed deeply through his nose and slowly out his mouth, gently running his hands over Derek’s broad back. Something was stuck beneath a red stain in the fabric.

“Up,” he choked, and Derek whined as Stiles pulled the shirt over his head and down his arms. He tossed the wet cotton aside and bit his lip.

Stiles touched the tip of the arrow shaft sticking out of Derek’s shoulder, and he squeezed his eyes shut and laid a hand over Derek’s neck before he gripped it tight and pulled it straight out, throwing it across the balcony stone.

Derek snarled and yelped, legs kicking before Stiles hushed him, turning Derek over onto his back. Stiles slid closer, smoothing his hands over Derek’s broad chest, up into the thick fur of his neck and shoulders. Having discarded his cloak, Stiles reached as far as he could and dragged a length of torn red curtain across the floor, draping half of it over Derek’s body. “Derek? Derek, look at me.”

Derek’s eyes cracked open, his harsh panting warm on Stiles face when Stiles leaned close over him. His eyes were so green, brighter than Stiles had ever seen them, and his paw was warm when he reached up and touched Stiles’ face.

“You came back,” Derek said again, as if they were the only words he knew, the only words that mattered.

Stiles nodded, sniffling as he smoothed the fur back from Derek’s cheeks, touching the smoothness of his muzzle and forehead. “Of course I came back. I’ll never leave you again.”

Derek closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the stone. His horns clacked against the marble, and his ears laid down against his head. “I think it’s my turn to leave…”

“ _No._ No, no. We’re together now, so everything’s going to be fine. Everything’s _fine_ , Derek, you… You’ll be alright,” Stiles said, his voice cracking. He slid his hand down Derek’s chest, pressing his palm over the wound in his side. Derek groaned into the contact, blood burning through Stiles’ fingers.

“Oh my g…” Stiles broke off, and he turned sharply and reached for Derek’s discarded shirt. He pressed the material to Derek’s wound hard, trying to stop the bleeding. The material was quickly stained dark, and Stiles tore his gaze away. His hands trembled when he looked back up at Derek

Derek smiled at him, and Stiles exhaled a watery breath. “It’s gonna be fine… We’re fine.” Stiles nodded, and Derek wasn’t sure if he was reassuring himself or doing his best to comfort Derek.

Derek sighed, rubbing his thumb over Stiles’ cheekbone. “It’s better… it’s better this way,” Derek said, and Stiles grabbed his ear and pulled on it. It was much gentler than any time before, but Derek still grumbled at the punch to his dignity.

“Don’t talk like that. We’ll figure this out, we… Scott, and the others, they…” Stiles looked up, and he saw Parrish in the doorway, setting Mrs. McCall down beside Isaac…

Neither of them were moving. Or speaking.

“They…” Stiles voice broke.

Scott looked up at Danny as the coat rack ceased to move. Allison was wrapped tight in his arms, already growing still. “Erica and Boyd have already…” He cleared his throat. “Allison, I…”

“I know, Scott,” She said, and then her wings closed, and her feathers smoothed, and Scott made a broken sound in his throat.

“Allison…”

“Scott,” Jackson said, and his hands were moving on his face, his gears creaking as he tried to walk. “Scott, I,” he tried again.

“It was an honor to serve beside you, _mon ami_ ,” Scott said, and Jackson hiccuped, the sound surprisingly genuine and hopeless.

“Yes… It was something like that,” Jackson said, and then his features shifted and altered, the hands on his face moving, and he was gone, too.

Scott looked to Stiles, and he was smiling as his features became brassy and stiff, his arms stretching into a bow before he was upright and still. Gone. They were all gone.

“No… _no,”_ Stiles choked, his eyes burning with tears as he looked down at Derek again, touching his face, his ears, his horns. “Derek, stay with me. Derek, come on,” he said, and he patted Derek’s cheek. “Look at me, Sourwolf.”

Derek laughed, though it sounded more like a cough. He looked up at Stiles, smiling warmly, tiredly, and his chest heaved as he inhaled. “At least I got to see you… one last time.”

The room dimmed, and Stiles’ head snapped up just in time to see the last petal fall and wither atop the others, the castle growing dark inside and out, all magic gone cold before vanishing.

Stiles took Derek’s paw in his hands, lifting it to his face again, brushing his cheek against the rough pads. Stiles was crying now, his tears much hotter than the rain, and he watched in disbelief as Derek’s eyes slipped shut, his head falling to the side.

Stiles dropped Derek’s paw, covering his mouth with both hands, his shoulders heaving as he sniffled loudly through his fingers. “ _No…_ No, Derek, please. _Please_ , don’t…”  He laid his hands over Derek’s chest, searching for that mighty heartbeat he had felt just hours before. But it was gone… Derek was gone.

Parrish sagged against the doorframe, watching as Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek as best as he could, gathering him up and crying into his chest. He turned his face away, and Lydia was there.

“Lyd…” He stopped when she lifted her hand, something about her vastly different than before. She was less dirty, her hair thicker and richer in color beneath her hood, and her eyes were full of light as a smile touched her full, rosy lips.

Stiles tangled his hands into Derek’s mane, sitting up and looking down at him with tears burning down his cheeks. “Don’t leave me… Don’t leave me, Derek. I love you,” he said, and he kissed Derek’s muzzle, then his cheek, and his forehead. The words sank into him then, biting and clawing with realization, and Stiles sobbed. “I _love_ you. I love you, Derek, please, don’t…”

Stiles broke down into another fit of harsh sobs, and he shoved his face against Derek’s broad chest to muffle them.

Lydia walked forward, tugging her hood back as she reached the rose. “Well, that was unexpected,” she said, and she touched the crystal bell jar. It burst beneath her fingers into a spray of glitter, and the petals burned golden as they were washed up in a wave of bright light.

The rain outside turned to drips, then drops, and then sparks of gold shooting down from the sky, exploding into glittering embers when they hit the ground like shooting stars. Stiles lifted his head, the bright light and rose petals washing over Derek, lifting him. Stiles stumbled back, into the dim light of dawn approaching on the balcony as Derek was lifted into the air by gold light and shining fog, rose petals like dancing flames.

The thick red velvet of the curtain wrapped around Derek, and his body twisted and slumped in the air, head hanging as the smoke burned brighter.

With an arch and a twist, one of Derek’s arms emerged from the curtain, and in a bright beam of light shone out from his forepaw as it became a hand.

Stiles blinked, watching with rapt anticipation as the curtain twisted again, Derek’s tail swishing before vanishing in a burst of light. A paw emerged, reshaping in bright light before transforming into a foot. The light grew in intensity, in brilliance and brightness, and it seemed to be coming from _inside_ Derek now as his mane whipped in the smoky wind and his horns gleamed and shrank and then the most brilliant light of all shone out, and Stiles had to shield his eyes.

The light was fading, the petals scattering across the floor, and Derek’s body was lowered to the ground, smaller than before, completely engulfed in the red curtain.

He was laid gently down on the stone balcony, and Stiles pressed himself back up against the wall and watched as the curtain shifted, a deep breath being drawn in.

Derek moved to get up, the curtain sliding from his body, and Stiles was shocked into stillness. There was a moment of disbelief, a head bowed over hands, hands touching chest and stomach, bare feet stumbling on stone, and then realization. It was in the curve of Derek’s spine rising up straight, his bare shoulders tense. That realization that being human again meant Stiles loved him too. Derek turned around and looked at Stiles.

Stiles couldn’t move. He was frozen, unable to blink as Derek looked down at himself again.

He was human, and he was the most gorgeous thing Stiles had ever seen, black hair cropped thick and soft and short, his shoulders broad, golden skin stretched over his muscular frame, stomach taut. His hands were broad and strong, and his bare feet were without a doubt the most beautiful feet Stiles had ever seen.

But his face, oh…

Derek wasn’t moving, keeping the length of the balcony between them when he looked up at Stiles again, so Stiles would have to move. If Stiles was scared, then Derek was terrified. He wouldn’t come to Stiles. Stiles would have to go to him.

And he did.

Stiles crossed the balcony, slowly, his eyes taking in every inch as he got closer, from Derek’s slender waist to his bare throat, and to his face. He was cut of hard, smooth angles, his jaw covered in a fine layer of scruff, his brows strong and dark over those eyes…

Derek’s brows furrowed, his lips parting, and god, how soft his mouth looked when Stiles got close enough that their chests nearly touched. So many things rushed through Stiles mind; beautiful, stunning, adorable. All things he would not say out loud. Derek looked nervous, and when Stiles lifted a hand and touched his rough, stubbly cheek, his eyes almost fluttered shut. Derek’s breath was hot on Stiles’ cheek when he exhaled heavily.

If Stiles had not seen it happen before his own eyes, then Derek’s eyes would have been his proof. Burning emerald and forest and sunshine, those green eyes beneath those long lashes would have been proof enough as they looked at Stiles like he was the most precious thing under the stars. And had he not seen those eyes, then Derek’s voice when he spoke would have been all the truth Stiles needed.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek said, and though his voice was not so low, not a growl, it was that simple way that he said it, reverent in the way only he could say Stiles’ name, that set shivers upon Stiles’ skin.

Stiles sniffled, blinking back the last of his tears before he cleared his throat. He stepped a bit closer, taking in the fine features of Derek’s face, the changes that had taken over him. So small a thing, the way they were not so far apart in height now, but Derek’s body still shadowed his own. Where Stiles was lean, Derek was thick, and Stiles wondered if it had been that way before the curse, or if this was a bit of Beast holding on.

Derek’s hand was timid when he lifted it to press it over Stiles’ fingers on his cheek, holding his palm there. Stiles sighed, and Derek’s other hand touched his hip, gently skimmed the side of his waist before settling on his ribs, pulling Stiles closer.

His face was burning, and Stiles could see that familiar glint of mischief in Derek’s eyes, and he scraped his thumb across Derek’s jaw before he looked up at his eyebrows. “Well… Not much change there,” he said matter-of-factly.

Derek laughed, squeezing his eyes shut as he pressed their foreheads together, and Stiles would live to be a hundred years old before he would ever hear a sound so beautiful ever again.

Stiles let his hands drop down to Derek’s bare chest, the skin hot beneath his palms, and Stiles flushed at his own boldness. Derek cupped his face with smooth, strong hands. And Derek was still waiting, still unsure, so Stiles closed his eyes and gently pressed his fingers to the nape of Derek’s neck. And Derek went, claiming Stiles’ mouth with his, lips warm and trembling before Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck.

Easy as breathing, Derek wound his arms around Stiles’ waist, and he lifted him and kissed him deeper, Stiles’ hands in his hair. In a gust of wind, gold sparks burst from between them, shooting off into the sky like fireworks.

Light broke from the sky, bursting up from the tower in a rain of gold sparks, and the gloom began to dissipate. Clouds cracked open and vanished, leaving the dawn breaking across a blue, clear sky, and the shower of gold touched every into of the castle, changing gray marble and black stone to white and silver, the gargoyles to angels and cherubs, every broken bridge and hole in the tower walls repaired.

Parrish jolted as a flurry of light and sparks showered up beside him, and the servants were changed from objects to people once again.

Mrs. McCall had Isaac in her lap, kissing his curly golden head frantically as he giggled. “Oh, my love is a little boy again!” Isaac laughed again as her dark hair tickled his face, her lips leaving pink stains across his cheeks.

Danny slumped against the doorframe, pressing a hand to his face. “Oh… Oh, the others!” He exclaimed, and turned, running down the hall. He tripped over his own legs once, and after righting himself, he ran more smoothly.

Scott rolled over onto his back, his head spinning as the sparks danced across his face. He lifted a hand, followed the sight of fingers down the length of his black coat, then touched his own jaw and wavy hair.

Jackson was standing over him, hair perfect, adjusting his waist coat before he pulled out his pocket watch and flicked it open. His handsome face was set to a scowl, blue eyes sharp as he looked Scott from head to toe. “Beat you, _mon ami_.”

Scott’s grin split his face, and he was on his feet with his arms around Jackson a moment later. “ _Mon deiu, mon ami! Reguardez combine vous_ _êtes_ _belle!_ ”

Jackson swatted at him, wriggling out of Scott’s hold. “That does not mean I want to touch,” Jackson scowled, huffing as he righted his sharp vest again.

Scott spun around, and he practically squealed at the pile of feathers on the floor beside him. “ _Mon amour,_ ” he gasped, and when Allison’s slim, lace-clad arm reached out for him, Scott took her hand and lifted her from the flurry of feathers.

Her hands fussed with the buttons of his coat, and he dusted feathers out of her ornately curled hair. “Oh, I love you, Scott,” she said, kissing his face.

“I know, I know,” he said, practically tittering.

Jackson grimaced. He turned towards the stairs when he heard a loud aria rising from the foyer, and then the clanking of harpsichord keys and excited yipping. A soft smile touched Jackson’s lips, and he rubbed his pocket watch on his chest and looked over at Derek and Stiles. He felt warm and calm inside, and he sighed and looked up at the glittering angels on the ceiling. “So much for true love.”

Parrish looked around frantically, listening to the castle come alive, and he realized Lydia was gone.

Atop the marble table, there lay a single red rose in bloom, and Derek held Stiles in his arms and kissed him and kissed him. He was unsure how one could be so hungry, so starved for something they had never had, but the feel of Stiles’ lips on his and the taste of him and the warmth of him were quickly consuming all Derek knew.

If Stiles could read his mind, he would have thought the same thing, his fingers searching across inch after inch of Derek’s bare, sun-warm flesh.

Mrs. McCall cleared her throat. Loudly.

Stiles turned his face towards her, flushed and drowsy, and he blinked the delirium away when Derek’s arms loosened around him. Derek laughed bashfully, and Stiles saw him blush for the first time.

“Oh, my Prince!” Scott called, and he rushed over to Derek and threw his arms around him, despite Derek’s naked torso.

Derek laughed, hugging Scott back. “It’s good to see you, Scott.”

“Let me in, let me through. Stiles!” Erica’s voice sang from the hallway, and when Stiles looked up she was there.

Oh, she was beautiful, golden hair wild around her face and down her shoulders, eyes bright and lined in dark makeup, lips red. Her gown fluttered behind her, a mess of ruffles and sequins, and when she threw her arms around Stiles she took him to the ground, kissing his face.

Boyd stepped in beside Parrish, holding Frou Frou --who had become a papillon once again--in his arms. Parrish blinked, taking a small side-step away from the significantly intimidating stature that was Boyd.

Danny returned, and he offered Derek a gray cloak and _then_ a hug. Then he turned to Stiles, who Erica had released, and took his hands, kissing them.

The hugs and kisses were frantic and warm, and Stiles felt Derek’s hand never slip from his.

“Stiles? Stiles!”

Stiles stilled, setting Isaac down as he looked towards the hall. “Dad?” He dragged Derek along with him, barefoot and all, and the servants followed onto the landing before the foyer.

John stood at the bottom of the stairs, along with almost all of the villagers. They were all murmuring, speaking with the servants about how they had been here before, how they remembered their Prince. Some of them were even kissing servants and hugging children as if the castle had become one huge long-lost reunion.

Stiles smiled at his father, and then he gasped. Turning, he smacked his hand against Derek’s chest. Derek flinched, startled. “You never told me you were a Prince. And none of you told me either!” The others all looked rightfully guilty, but they were smiling and laughing still, and Stiles couldn’t be mad at them forever.

Derek smiled, taking Stiles’ hands in his. “That’s true, I never told you… I’m a Prince. There, I told you.” Stiles huffed, and Derek kissed his forehead. “I’ve also never told you I love you… have I?”

Blinking, Stiles looked up at Derek’s face, and he touched Derek’s jaw again, looking up into those eyes. “Well… no.” Stiles blushed darkly.

Smirking, Derek bowed down and said, “I love you, Stiles,” and kissed him.

****

 

The celebration was as glamorous as they come, and the most elegant affair Stiles had ever been to.

Noble lords and ladies from afar had come to attend, as had Stiles’ village, all dressed in fine gowns and coats the color of spring and autumn mornings and evenings. They danced in fluid, synchronized patterns across the ballroom, the dark marble sparkling under their light feet.

The crystal chandeliers and golden sconces were dressed in white ribbons and thick, pale pink roses, the wide balcony doors thrown open, letting in the wash of clean, cool air. Everything smelled of honey and rain, and the music lit the air with a current of warmth and harmony.

Erica was dressed in a rose red gown, her voice carrying across the floor and up against the ceiling with angelic beauty. She leaned against Boyd’s harpsichord, his fingers gentle and swift across the keys. Danny played a violin beside them.

_Certain as the sun rising in the east. Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme. Beauty and the Beast._

John sat to the side of the ballroom, painting for what seemed the first time in years, smiling at Mrs. McCall. She glanced at him with increasing frequency, always smiling. On the dance floor nearby, Jackson watched the exchange with an eye roll, Isaac’s small hands warm and soft in his as he danced him in a miniature version of the graceful waltz occurring behind them. Scott and Allison spun gracefully around one another, and Jackson found that he couldn’t look anywhere in the room without finding a ridiculous amount of romance. He opted to smile down at Isaac instead, who, in his smart sky-blue vest, was waltzing with surprising grace, for a seven-year-old.

Parrish attended the party on Mrs. McCall’s request, despite his better judgment. He was dancing with a lovely young maiden in a flowering gown, and he followed the steps of the dance with his eyes on the floor. A sudden partner change left him stumbling, and he caught his foot on his own ankle and awkwardly tripped. He was caught in the next spin of the waltz by arms that better matched his own stature, and he realized he was waltzing with Liam.

They blinked at each other, and when Parrish pushed, Liam spun out. There was a flush on his cheeks when Parrish tugged him back in, and they both laughed bashfully at one another, fingers tangling together.

Amidst the twirling skirts and dazzling coats, Stiles and Derek danced at the middle of the ballroom.

Erica had fashioned for him—traditionally, in Paris, to Stiles’ delight—a white waistcoat embroidered with pink and red and cream colored roses. He wore no jacket over it, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, flashing pale skin, and his rose colored breeches were stitched with gold vines. A cape draped off his shoulders from two gold pins, the material flowing tulle, embroidered roses scattered across the wispy material. His mother’s necklace gleamed between his collar bones.

It was a kind and pale contrast to Derek’s own forest green coat, which complemented the rich leaves of Stiles waistcoat. Flashes of roses in gold embroidery draped around Derek's neck and cuffs, and his golden cravat was a beautiful contrast to his skin.

Everyone followed a decadent spin across the floor, and Derek took that opportunity to take the dance step just a bit further. He dipped Stiles low, Stiles’ hands instinctively wrapping around his neck, and Derek pressed a chaste kiss to Stiles’ throat when his head tipped back.

Stiles’ gasped, heart kicking in his chest, and when Derek lifted him, he grabbed Derek by his cravat and kissed him soundly on the lips, Derek’s hands framing his face. When they pulled apart, Stiles was flushed, and Derek smiled at him that adoring smile Stiles loved so much.

Though they were surrounded now by many pairs of graceful feet and fluttering gowns, Derek’s eyes followed and held Stiles’ gaze as they had that first dance, when it had only been the two of them in the very same room.

Derek was an even more graceful dancer on his human feet, and his hands were still almost as warm and broad as his paws. Stiles found himself contemplating where they were, and how they had come to be there, and he swept his eyes over Derek and smiled.

Brows furrowing in curiosity, Derek tilted his head to the side. “What is it?”

Stiles laughed, pressing his lips before he spoke again. “Nothing, I just… It’s funny, how much is different, and how much is the same,” he said, his eyes roaming from Derek’s feet back up to his face.

“Like what?” Derek smirked.

Glancing away, Stiles blushed. “I might miss the tail,” he said. He looked back at Derek, who was grinning.  Stiles laughed at his own comment, and he shook his head as Derek raked his eyes over him.

They crossed wrists, circling around one another to the familiar steps.

Then Derek’s grin became predatory, and he growled at Stiles, a low, strong sound that was in no manner human. He growled like Stiles’ beast.

Stiles blushed darker, laughter sweet as a bell as he bowed his head against the back of his own hand in Derek’s grasp, the ladies of the room following the action with curtsies as the music swelled.

Derek was smiling that warm, contented smile when Stiles rose, and his chest swelled with warmth as Derek bowed and kissed his hand, the scratch of his stubble something like a memory.

Then the tempo of the music swayed, and Derek brought Stiles against his chest and spun them in tight circles, Stiles’ cape flaring, his laughter pealing.

The ballroom was a flurry of skirts and coats, sunlight on crystal and warm skin. It was honeyed and smooth, Erica’s voice pure and bright, Boyd’s playing gentle and lovely.

_Winter turns to spring. Famine turns to feast._

And there was Derek, pulling Stiles close, letting Stiles rest his head against Derek’s chest as they danced lilting steps in the center of the ballroom. It was that mighty heartbeat beneath Stiles’ ear, thrumming a safe and sound rhythm that Stiles wanted to feel beneath his hand and behind his own ribs for a very, very long time.

_Nature points the way, nothing left to say. Beauty and the Beast._

 

**Author's Note:**

> First thing's first. Ahem. *screams incoherently*  
> Thank you. Now then! On to business! _Beauty and the Beast_ is one of my favorite movies, especially as far as Disney princess movies go, and to see the remake I legit cried. CRIED. But enough about that, we'd be here all day. On to the Inspiration!
> 
> My favorite version of [Evermore](http://partofyourtaleasoldastime.tumblr.com/post/158610698302/fabledmuses-after-hearing-the-song-and-learning). (But hey, Josh Groban is also fantastic)  
> [This post. THIS POST.](http://xxjinchuurikixx.tumblr.com/post/159352799383/bhadpodcast-eumonigy-beauty-and-the-beast)  
>   
> Constellation freckle cliche brought to you by Mara's freckle kink. (THIS IS WHO I AM, I CANNOT CHANGE)  
>   
> This is the only thing that matters in my life.  
>   
> Just give him horns. There's my boy, there's my wolfy Beast.
> 
> CAST  
> Stiles- Belle  
> Derek- Beast/Prince  
> Peter- Gaston  
> Parrish- Lefou  
> Sheriff- Maurice  
> Scott- Lumiere  
> Jackson- Cogsworth  
> Isaac- Chip  
> Melissa- Mrs. Potts  
> Danny- Coat Rack  
> Erica- Garderobe  
> Boyd- Cadenza  
> Lydia- Enchantress  
> Liam- Stanley  
> and Roscoe the Jeep as Philippe


End file.
